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AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


By EARL REED SILVERS 


DICK ARNOLD OF RARITAN COLLEGE 
DICK ARNOLD PLAYS THE GAME 
DICK ARNOLD OF THE VARSITY 
NED BEALS, FRESHMAN 
AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


T 244 B 






WARD LEAPED UPWARD AND OUTWARD IN HIS FINAL DESPERATE EFFORT 

[page 268 ] 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


EARL REED SILVERS r 

M 

AUTHOR OF “NED BEALS, FRESHMAN,” “DICK 
ARNOLD OF RARITAN COLLEGE,” “DICK 
ARNOLD PLAYS THE GAME,” ETC. 



» » 


D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
NEW YORK : : 1922 : : LONDON 



COPYRIGHT, 1922. BY 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 



PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 


SEP 1 9 1922 ' 

©CIA683297‘- 



TO 

MY MOTHER 

EVELYN REED SILVERS 































* 














CONTENTS 


CHAPTER page 

I. The Newcomer 1 

II. The Team 12 

III. The Trip 22 

IV. An Agreement 32 

V. The Challenge 42 

VI. The Varsity 53 

VII. Bright Prospects 64 

VIII. School Spirit 75 

IX. The Game 87 

X. The A. A. Meeting 99 

XI. The Hike Ill 

XII. The First Track Practice 124 

XIII. The New Coach 137 

XIV. The Fireman’s Carnival 150 

XV. A Clash 164 

XVI. The Coward 176 

XVII. The Junior Reception 188 

XVIII. At the Hillsdale A. C 203 

XIX. A Refusal 216 

XX. Athlete and Gentleman 228 

XXI. The Visitor 237 

XXII. The County Meet 246 

XXIII. The Dub Comes Through 260 
















AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


CHAPTER I 
THE NEWCOMER 

A GLANCE at the bulletin board in the hall- 
way of the school told Ward Jackson that 
basketball practice would be held in the 
Hillsdale Y. M. C. A. at four o’clock that afternoon. 
Ward was not entirely sure of the exact location of the 
“Y,” so he turned questioningly to one of his school- 
mates who happened to be standing beside him. 
“How does a fellow get to the Y. M.?” he asked. 
The other boy regarded him for a moment with 
widespread eyes, and when he spoke, his voice was 
just about ten degrees huskier than Ward had im- 
agined it would be. 

“Going to try for the team?” he demanded, ap- 
parently forgetting the fact that he had been asked 
a question. 

Ward nodded. 


l 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


“Yes,” he answered. “I played some on one of 
the New York high school teams.” 

“Oh! You ought to make Hillsdale, then.” The 
boy did not speak very confidently, however, and a 
moment later he smiled cynically. “But that isn’t 
saying you will,” he added. 

Puzzled, Ward glanced curiously at his companion. 
He was a rather small chap, with thin face and a 
square jaw, and with large dark-rimmed glasses which 
made him look almost owlish. But there was, never- 
theless, something likable about him, and Ward 
grinned into his sober eyes. 

“How do I get to the Y. M. G. A.?” he asked again. 
“My name’s Ward Jackson and I just entered school 
to-day.” 

“Yes, I know you did.” The other boy held out 
his hand. “I’m ‘Squint’ Anderson,” he said, “and 
you get to the Y. M. by going straight down Main 
Street for three blocks.” 

“Thanks!” Ward took the outstretched hand and 
was surprised at the strength of its grip. “Play 
basketball yourself any?” 

“You just bet I don’t! Not in this school, any- 
how.” 

“But ” Ward was frankly puzzled at the 

2 


THE NEWCOMER 

other boy’s attitude. “What’s the trouble?” he asked 
abruptly. 

The ringing of the two o’clock bell, however, 
broke off all further conversation. 

“That means we have to get out of the hall,” 
Squint announced. Then his big eyes hardened for 
an instant. “You’ll find out after a while,” he said. 

Ward had no idea what the other boy was driving 
at. He had only been in Hillsdale for two days; 
and he knew little about the town, and even less about 
the fellows in it. The school itself, however, seemed 
to be a good one, and the pupils he had seen were all 
friendly enough, and pleasant. But evidently there 
was trouble somewhere, or Squint would not have 
spoken as he did. 

Ward, however, did not let the question bother him; 
and when school was dismissed at three o’clock, he 
followed some of the other boys toward the Y. M. 
C. A. building on Main Street. He had been a mem- 
ber of the “Y” in New York for a number of years, 
and he was glad that the Association had a branch in 
Hillsdale. It would make him feel more at home. 

The secretary, evidently sensing that he was a 
stranger, greeting him cordially, found out that he 
wanted to try for the high school basketball team, 
3 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 

and offered to take him downstairs to the locker 
room and introduce him to the other players. 

“The team only had a fair season last year,” he 
explained. “Probably they’ll be glad to have some 
new material.” 

They did not seem particularly pleased, however. 
Ben Powelson, captain and center, regarded him with 
a critical glance, mumbled something about being 
glad to have some additional candidates, and turned 
to one of the other players. 

“We ought to see if we can get some cars to take 
us to Millville, Stretch,” he said. 

The boy he had spoken to, a thin, lanky fellow 
whom Ward did not like, nodded indifferently. 

“One will be enough if it can carry seven people,” 
he answered. “We don’t want the whole school tag- 
ging along after us.” 

Ward turned away and regarded the other candi- 
dates for the team. There were only a dozen or so 
of them, and they did not look especially promis- 
ing. It was rather a poor showing for a school of 
over one hundred boys, and Ward found himself 
wondering if there wasn’t something the matter with 
the Hillsdale spirit. 

After a time, when Ben Powelson did not pay any 
4 


THE NEWCOMER 

further attention to him, he touched the other boy on 
the shoulder. 

“How about a suit?” he asked quietly. “You 
supply candidates with a uniform, don’t you?” 

But Powelson shook his head. 

“We only have seven outfits,” he explained. 
<6 And they are given out to fellows who make the 
team. The others have to supply their own suits.” 

“But I won’t be able to practice to-day unless I 
have one.” 

The team captain smiled, but it wasn’t a pleasant 
smile. 

“You can wait until to-morrow then,” he answered 
shortly. 

Annoyed, and not entirely understanding, Ward 
walked over to the door of the locker room and looked 
out over the floor of the gymnasium. It was a good 
gym, and the baskets hung extended from the two 
ends. Suddenly, Ward was conscious of a figure be- 
side him. 

“Pretty good court, isn’t it?” some one asked. 

“Yes, fine!” Turning, Ward found himself 
looking into the eyes of a boy of about his own age, 
slighter in build, with smiling face and clear blue 
eyes. 


5 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


Tm Janeway, a substitute,” the stranger ex- 
plained. “Played much before?” 

“Yes, in New York.” 

“On what team?” 

“DeWitt Clinton High School.” 

Janeway’s eyes opened wide. 

“You ought to be good, then,” he said frankly. 

“I don’t know.” Ward tried to make his words 
sound casual. “Think I can make the Hillsdale 
team?” 

He was conscious that the other boy was avoiding 
his eyes. 

“It’s hard to say,” he answered. “The team’s 
pretty nearly picked now, I think.” 

“But — but the season hasn’t started yet.” 

“I know.” Suddenly, Janeway raised his eyes 
and looked fairly into the new boy’s puzzled face. 
“We haven’t any coach here,” he explained evenly, 
“and Ben Powelson and his friends run things about 
to suit themselves. And I guess Ben’s almost de- 
cided what fellows he wants to play.” 

“But doesn’t it make any difference whether a 
man’s good or not?” 

“Oh, yes, but — ” Suddenly, Janeway turned away. 
“You’ll see how things go,” he said. 

6 


THE NEWCOMER 


Frankly puzzled, Ward went back into the locker 
room, where Ben Powelson, who had finished dress- 
ing, regarded him curiously. 

“Ever play before, Jackson?” he asked. 

Ward nodded. 

“Yes,” he answered, “in New York.” He knew 
that it would strengthen his chances of making the 
team if he went into further detail, but there was 
something about the Hillsdale captain which placed 
the newcomer instinctively on his guard. He de- 
cided that he did not like the look in Powelson’s 
eyes. 

“How did you happen to come out here?” the 
other player asked. 

“My father bought the Van Rennsalaer place.” 

“Humph!” Powelson’s eyes opened. “Have a 
car then, haven’t you?” 

“Yes, a sedan.” 

“Run it yourself?” 

“Yes.” 

“That’s fine.” The team captain’s face lighted. 
“Maybe you can take us to some of our out-of-town 
games, then?” 

“Yes, maybe I can.” 


7 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


Powelson turned away for a moment and called 
across the room. 

“Oh! Stretch!” he announced. “Jackson here has 
a seven-passenger car.” 

The boy addressed as Stretch grinned back at the 
captain. 

“We’ll have to give him a job on the team, then,” 
he said jokingly. 

But Ward wasn’t sure that he meant it entirely as a 
joke. Whoever Stretch was, there was no doubt but 
that he was Ben Powelson’s best friend; and Powelson 
evidently was boss of the basketball team. 

“I don’t want any job unless I can fill it,” Ward 
declared quietly. “To-morrow, though, I’ll bring 
down my suit and come out.” 

Powelson nodded indifferently, and turned to the 
squad. 

“Come on, fellows,” he said. “We’ll put in a 
good day’s practice.” 

After the others had left, Ward made his way up- 
stairs to the circular balcony overlooking the gym- 
nasium. A good deal of his zest for basketball had 
been brushed away; it occurred to him that conditions 
in a small school like Hillsdale were radically 
different from what he had been accustomed to. 

8 


THE NEWCOMER 


“But anyhow,” he told himself, “if I can play the 
game better than the other fellows, they’ll have to give 
me a place.” 

He sat with his arms on the balcony railing and re- 
garded the practice with critical eyes. The men 
played hard enough, but they were obviously ignorant 
of the finer points; and Ward knew, before ten 
minutes had gone by, that he was a stronger player 
even than Ben Powelson. But the knowledge did not 
give him the satisfaction he had expected. In view 
of the events of the afternoon, he was not sure 
whether he wanted to make the team or not. 

The balcony was practically deserted, but after 
a time two boys came through the door from the 
reading room and nodded pleasantly to Ward. One 
of them was Squint Anderson, and the other a curly- 
haired, upstanding chap whom Ward had noticed 
in school earlier in the day. 

“This is Bill Barrett,” Squint announced. “I’d 
like to have you two fellows know each other.” 

They shook hands, and at the moment that their 
grips met, Ward knew, somehow, that he had found a 
friend. Neither he nor Barrett said anything, but for 
an instant they searched each other’s eyes and found 
unconsciously what they were looking for. Then 
9 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 

they sat down and watched the practice without com- 
ment. 

The first team, led by Ben Powelson and Stretch 
Magens, literally played rings around the lighter 
scrubs. But Squint Anderson explained that the 
reason the varsity looked so good was because the sec- 
ond team was only a joke. 

“Put them up against real opposition,” he de- 
clared, “and they’ll go to pieces in ten min- 
utes.” 

Bill Barrett, however, shook his head. 

“They’re not quite so bad as that, Squint,” he said 
quietly. 

The other boy grunted. 

“You ought to know,” he answered. “You 
played with them for two years.” 

Ward, puzzled at the announcement, waited for a 
moment for further enlightenment. But the two 
other boys were silent and finally Ward could not con- 
ceal his curiosity longer. 

“If you’ve played with them for two years,” he 
asked wonderingly, “why aren’t you down there to- 
day?” 

Bill Barrett, leaning over the railing, fixed his 
eyes somberly on the shifting players below him. 

10 


THE NEWCOMER 


“I haven’t gone out for the team this year,” he 
answered quietly. 

Bill did not attempt an explanation, and Ward did 
not ask him for any. But he was puzzled, more 
puzzled than he had ever remembered being. For 
Bill Barrett did not look like a fellow who would 
desert a team on which he had played for two years. 

What was the matter with Barrett? Or did the 
trouble lie somehow, in the Hillsdale High School? 
Ward shook his head hopelessly. 


CHAPTER II 


THE TEAM 


O N the following afternoon, Ward Jackson 
reported as a candidate for the basketball 
team. He had found one of his old uni- 
forms in his wardrobe at home, and his woolen jer- 
sey was emblazoned with the big “C” of DeWitt Clin- 
ton High School. The majority of the other candi- 
dates were already in the locker room when he ar- 
rived. Ben Powelson nodded to him casually, but 
Stretch Magens did not even look up from the shoe 
he was lacing. Three or four of the members of the 
scrub team, however, greeted him cordially, and Phil 
Janeway moved aside on the substitute’s bench to 
make room for him. It was not until he had donned 
his uniform, however, that Ben Powelson paid any 
special attention to him. 

“You’re larger than I thought you were,” he said, 
almost grudgingly. “What does the 6 C’ stand 
for?” 

“DeWitt Clinton High School.” 


12 


THE TEAM 


The Hillsdale captain’s eyes opened a trifle wider. 

“Pretty good team last year, wasn’t it?” he asked. 

Ward nodded. It had been a good team, one of 
the best in the state, and probably it could have 
doubled Hillsdale’s score if the two teams had played. 
But Ward did not attempt any explanations; he was 
just a bit put out by Powelson’s indifferent attitude, 
and he was increasingly conscious of an aversion to 
the other boy, which grew stronger at each successive 
meeting. Things at Hillsdale were not at all as he 
had expected. He had thought that any player 
coming from such a school as DeWitt Clinton would 
be welcomed with opened arms by the Hillsdale 
players; and before moving into the small town he 
had pictured his triumphant entry into the circle of 
Hillsdale athletes. But instead of the welcome 
which he had expected, he had been greeted only in- 
differently, as if they did not care whether he played 
or not. 

The strange attitude of the members of the varsity 
team left him almost bewildered. He could not 
understand it, could not find any just reason for Ben 
Powelson’s indifference. It seemed to him as if the 
team captain almost resented his presence. At any 
rate, there were no loud acclaims of joy, no wild 
13 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 

celebration in his honor. He might just as well have 
been a dub. 

He was resolved, however, to continue to be a 
candidate for the basketball team throughout the 
season. So he followed the others out of the locker 
room, threw himself whole-heartedly into the pre- 
liminary practice, and waited curiously to find out 
if Powelson would assign him to a place either on the 
first or second team. 

When the two teams were selected for the scrim- 
mage work, however, he found that he had been left 
out, had not even been given a position on the scrubs. 
For a moment, the humiliation of it caused his eyes to 
flash angrily. It was inconceivable to him that a 
member of a team standing as high as DeWitt Clinton 
had stood could be relegated to the side lines in the 
practice scrimmage of the Hillsdale High School 
candidates. He knew that he was a better man than 
any of the scrubs, and as good surely as the varsity 
players themselves. For a moment he was 
tempted to lodge a protest, to demand of Ben Powel- 
son that he at least be given a chance to show what he 
could do. But the habit of discipline which he had 
learned at the city school held him back. 

Powelson, probably noting his flashing eyes, held 
14 


THE TEAM 


up practice for a moment and walked across the floor 
to where Ward was standing. 

“If you will stick around a bit, we’ll give you a 
chance after a while, Jackson,” he said. “But for 
the first ten minutes or so we want the same teams to 
play together.” 

Ward nodded without comment and, drawing his 
heavy sweater over his shoulders, watched the scrim- 
mage stolidly. As on the preceding afternoon, the 
first team had the better of the argument; but Ward 
noticed that Phil Janeway, playing forward on the 
scrub, several times eluded the varsity guard and 
tossed a ball neatly through the basket. As far as he 
could see, Phil was a better player than at least two 
members of the varsity. 

After ten minutes had passed, Ward began to grow 
restless; and as Powelson made no move to change 
the line-up of the two teams, he arose from the bench 
and began to pace along the sidelines. He was grow- 
ing angrier every minute, and found it hard to con- 
trol himself ; but just when he had reached a break- 
ing point, the varsity capta,in looked up and caught 
his eye. The Y. M. C. A. physical director, who was 
acting as referee, blew his whistle shrilly, and Powel- 
son held up his hand. 


15 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


“All right, Jackson,” he said briskly. “You can 
come in in place of Carlton.” 

Throwing off his sweater, Ward trotted to the posi- 
tion indicated. Carlton, however, had been a 
member of the scrub, team, and not a very good one at 
that; but Ward fought down the rush of indignation 
which swept over him, shook hands with Stretch 
Magens, his varsity opponent, and at the sound of the 
whistle, leaped into the air, snatched the ball from 
Stretch’s fingers and began to dribble it down the 
floor. Almost before he realized it, he had made a 
basket for the scrubs; and, as he trotted back to his 
position, he was conscious of the speculative gaze of 
Ben Powelson. It seemed to him, as he waited for 
the ball to be put into play again, that the varsity 
captain was not particularly pleased at what he had 
done; but Powelsdn did not say anything, and, when 
play was resumed, Ward found that the opposing 
players were on the lookout for a repetition of 
his dash down the court, and made every effort to 
cover him whenever he secured possession of the 
ball. 

Although he was not in the best of condition, 
owing to the fact that he had not played basket- 
ball for more than two weeks, Ward without doubt 
16 


THE TEAM 


gave a better exhibition of the indoor game than 
any other member of his team. He dominated the 
work of the scrubs, leading them successfully against 
the best efforts of Ben Powelson and Stretch Magens, 
until, after another ten minutes had gone by, the 
second team was actually holding its own with the 
varsity. 

At this point, however, the referee called for inter- 
mission, and the ten players walked wearily to the 
long wooden bench at the side of the court. Ward 
had rather expected that Powelson would say some- 
thing to him, but the team captain simply sat with his 
head in his hands and did not speak a word to any one. 
And then, when the whistle blew for a resumption of 
play, Powelson walked over to where Ward was stand- 
ing and nodded casually. 

“You did mighty good work, Jackson,” he 
announced, “but I think that we’ll keep you out of 
scrimmage for the rest of the afternoon.” 

Ward, his eyes opening wide, glanced at the other 
boy in frank amazement. 

“What’s the big idea?” he demanded angrily. “I 
did as good work as any of the others, didn’t I?” 

Powelson nodded, evidently undisturbed by the 
new candidate’s indignant question. 

17 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


‘‘Surely,” he answered. “You did all right, but I 
want to give some one else a chance.” 

Ward started to protest, but the team captain had 
turned away and was walking toward the center of the 
court. Ward realized then that there was nothing he 
could do except to accept the situation with the best 
possible grace, so he simply sank back on the bench 
again and watched moodily while the first team 
administered a severe beating to the scrub players. 

When the practice was finished, he followed the 
others into the locker room. They were all busy 
talking over the practice session and no one seemed to 
care whether he joined them or not. He realized, 
however, that it would do him no good to sulk by him- 
self, so he listened quietly while some of the varsity 
players discussed various incidents in the afternoon’s 
play; and even made a suggestion or two on his own 
account. 

When finally the men were dressed, they walked 
out of the building in groups of twos and threes, and 
Ward was surprised to find Ben Powelson striding be- 
side him. The varsity captain seemed to be in an un- 
usually good humor, and the moodiness which had 
characterized his attitude during the afternoon had 
apparently disappeared. 


18 


THE TEAM 


“I wouldn’t be at all surprised, if you made the 
team even before the first game,” he said to Ward. 
“We need another forward to work with Stretch 
Magens, and perhaps you are just the man to fill the 
place.” 

Surprised, Ward glanced up at his companion, but 
Powelson was looking at him smilingly and in evident 
sincerity. 

“I’ll he mighty glad to do anything I can,” Ward 
answered, a good deal of his irritation dispelled by 
the other boy’s words. “But I thought when you 
pulled me out this afternoon tlfet you didn’t quite like 
the way I was playing.” 

Powelson chuckled easily and laid a careless hand 
upon Ward’s shoulder. 

“I don’t think they come much better than you,” 
he said smilingly, “and if we can count on you to 
stand by us, you needn’t worry about making the 
team.” 

Ward nodded grimly. He was frankly pleased at 
Ben Powelson’s words, but he was finding it hard to 
reconcile the captain’s former attitude with his 
present cordiality. He had almost convinced him* 
self that he did not like Ben Powelson; and yet, in 
spite of bis aversion, he now found himself actually 
19 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


wanting to be friends with the other boy, wanting to 
stand well in his estimation. Suddenly, it came to 
him that it was just that kind of thing which made 
Powelson a big leader in the school. He could make 
people friendly toward him whenever he wished. 

Ward, however, resolved to reserve his own judg- 
ment until he knew the other boy better; and in the 
meantime he attended the daily basketball practices 
and gave the best that he had in each successive scrim- 
mage. Although he was a member of the scrub team 
a greater part of the time, there were periods when he 
replaced Art Denman as forward on the varsity and 
worked hand in hand with Powelson and Magens for 
the success of the team. 

As time for the first game drew nearer, he waited 
with ill-concealed impatience for the announcement 
which he was told would be posted on the bulletin 
board, listing the six players who would make the 
trip to Millville. He knew that if the selections were 
made on playing ability alone, he would be given a 
place on the varsity; but several things, which Bill 
Barrett and Squint Anderson had said to him, led 
him to believe that the team captain oftentimes per- 
mitted other influences to enter into the matter. 

“If you should go up to Powelson and tell him that 
20 


THE TEAM 


you would be glad to drive them to Millville in your 
car,” Squint remarked to him one day in the hallway 
of the school, “he would put you down as one of the 
players to go, just as sure as fate. Why don’t you try 
it?” 

Ward had no intention of following the advice, 
however; but two days before the game he found him- 
self walking home again with Powelson, and he was 
suddenly tempted to try an experiment. 

“Ben,” he said impulsively, “if you want me to, 
I’ll be glad to drive the team down to Millville on 
Saturday. The car holds seven people, you know.” 

The team captain did not answer, but his eyes 
lighted and for a moment he looked thoughtfully at 
the boy beside him. And on Friday morning, when 
the names of the men to make the trip were posted. 
Ward found that he was one of the six players to go. 
The seventh man was the team manager. 

In spite of the satisfaction which the announcement 
gave him, he could not help wondering whether he 
had been selected because he had offered the use of 
his car, or because Powelson really wanted him to 
play on the team. 


CHAPTER III 


THE TRIP 

A T nine o’clock on Saturday morning, Ward 
received a telephone call from Ben 
Powelson. 

“The manager has decided to start for Millville at 
11:30.” Ben advised him. “You can get the car 
at that time, can’t you?” 

Ward had not expected that they would start so 
early. Millville was only ten miles away and they 
could easily make the distance in thirty or forty 
minutes. 

“Why so early?” he asked. “The game doesn’t 
start until three o’clock, does it?” 

“No, but we’ve decided to have dinner there and 
look around a bit before we go to the high school,” 
Ben answered. “You can make it, can’t you?” 
“Yes, I guess so.” 

“Good work! We’ll start off from the school 
building at eleven then.” 


22 


THE TRIP 


After he had hung up the receiver, Ward went out 
to the garage, in the rear of the house, to see that the 
car was in readiness. He did not understand the 
reason for the early start; it would have been much 
better, he decided, if they had waited until an hour 
before the game and then gone directly to the basket- 
ball court; but he did not think it wise to make any 
objection, especially as his position on the team was 
by no means assured. While he was changing one 
of the rear tires, Bill Barrett came around the side of 
the house and joined him. 

“Are you all ready for the big day?” Bill asked 
casually. 

Ward nodded. 

“Yes,” he answered, “but I’ve just had word from 
Ben Powelson that we’re going to start at eleven 
o’clock. What’s the idea?” 

Bill smiled, but there were grim lines about his 
mouth and his eyes were troubled. 

“I suppose that Ben and his crowd want to get some 
fun out of the trip,” he answered. “It will mean, of 
course, that you can have dinner at the Mansion 
House in Millville.” 

“But how about the money? 4 ” Ward wanted to 
know. “Who pays for it all?” 

23 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


“The school. All of us are members of the 
athletic association, you know, and there is almost 
five hundred dollars in the treasury.” 

Ward would have liked to know more about it; 
why the basketball team should spend the associa- 
tion’s money so recklessly, and why the members of 
the squad themselves did not object to such things. 
But Bill changed the subject and did not seem to care 
to discuss the basketball situation, so Ward withheld 
his curiosity and did not ask further questions. He 
wished, though, that Bill Barrett was going with them. 

At eleven o’clock, he drove the big car to the high 
school building, where the five other members of the 
team and Chuck Connors, the manager, were awaiting 
him. They piled in happily, Ben Powelson taking 
his place in the front seat beside Ward. 

“Hit it up and let’s see how fast she can go,” Ben 
suggested. “We’re going to have a big time to-day.” 

In spite of the other boy’s suggestion, however. 
Ward drove slowly. He did not want to take any 
chances with his father’s car, especially in view of 
the fact that this was his first year of driving and he 
had just barely passed the age which permitted him 
to own a license. It was almost twelve o’clock when 
finally they rolled into Millville. 

24 


THE TRIP 


“Keep right on down Main Street,” Ben directed, 
“until you come to the Mansion House. We’re going 
to have dinner there.” 

Ward, keeping a careful eye on the traffic, followed 
the main street of the town until the hotel was reached. 
Millville was one of the larger cities of the state and 
the Mansion House was an imposing building with 
broad porches and a lobby filled with upholstered 
chairs. He followed Powelson and the others 
through the front door, wondering what they were 
going to do with themselves until the time of the 
game. The team captain, however, went directly to 
the desk and talked earnestly with the manager. Re- 
turning, he addressed the other boys with shining 
eyes. 

“They’re going to get up a special dinner for us,” 
he announced. “Everything from soup to ice cream, 
and it will be ready at one o’clock.” 

The others nodded in easy agreement, but Ward 
ventured a question. 

“How about paying for it?” he asked curiously. 
“Does the school stand the expense?” 

Powelson nodded. 

“You just bet it does,” he answered indifferently. 
“We’ve got all kinds of money in the athletic associa- 
25 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


tion, and Stretch Magens is treasurer. We can go 
the limit and nobody will say a word.” 

Ward began to understand then why it was that 
such fellows as Bill Barrett and Squint Anderson dis- 
approved of the basketball team. Ben Powelson and 
his friends did not seem to have any idea of school 
spirit, did not care how much money they spent so 
long as they were having a good time. It was all 
wrong. Ward argued, and his feeling toward the team 
captain underwent a radical change. Ben had been 
so pleasant to him, had tried so hard to please him 
during the past week, that Ward had almost forgotten 
his early dislike; but now he began to see the basket- 
ball leader in a different light. 

Ben and Stretch Magens, with a brief explanation 
about having some business to attend to, went out of 
the hotel a few minutes later, and Ward seated him- 
self in one of the big chairs and tried to read a maga- 
zine which he found on a near-by table. But he could 
not get interested in the story, and after a time he laid 
it aside and waited impatiently for one o’clock to 
come around. Art Denman and Chuck Connors had 
gone downstairs to the billiard room, and the two re- 
maining players were conversing between themselves 
and apparently having a good time. Ward felt very 
26 


THE TRIP 


much out of things and just a bit disgusted. He 
wondered if he would get a chance in the coming 
game with Millville. 

Shortly before one o’clock, Ben and Stretch 
Magens came back; and when the others had joined 
them, they led the way into the gilded dining room. 
The head waiter greeted them pleasantly, as if he had 
seen them before, and directed them to a large table 
in one corner. 

“Bring on the eats!” Ben ordered importantly. 
“We don’t want to spend more than an hour here.” 

It seemed very foolish to Ward to eat so heartily 
in view of the approaching contest. 

“Wouldn’t it be better,” he asked hesitatingly, “if 
we just had a little lunch now instead of a big dinner? 
I don’t want much to eat, anyhow.” 

But the others only laughed at him, and Stretch 
Magens glanced over at him curiously. 

“We’re not worrying much about the game,” he 
answered. “We’re out for a good time more than 
anything else.” 

But in spite of the example set by the other players, 
Ward did not do full justice to the dinner. He had 
been taught to take his athletics seriously, and he had 
always considered it an honor to play on a varsity 
27 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


team. If the others wanted to weaken their chances 
for victory, that was their own concern, but Ward was 
resolved that he at least would be in the best of condi- 
tion, would give all that he had to the game that after- 
noon. 

Once or twice, he found the other members of the 
team looking at him speculatively; but none of them 
said much to him and he felt like an outsider. When 
finally the dessert was brought in, however, and Ward 
announced that he did not care for either ice cream or 
pie, Stretch Magens frowned openly and made some 
side remark to Powelson about having a kill-joy in 
the party. But Ward did not care particularly; he 
was sorry he had come, sorry that he had even tried 
for the team. As soon as possible, he excused him- 
self and went out to the lobby of the hotel. The 
others did not urge him to stay, and it seemed to him 
that, when he arose from the table, they were glad 
to have him go. 

He waited for fifteen minutes or more, wondering 
what was keeping the team so long in the dining room, 
and finally he went back to the door and looked in. 
His six schoolmates were still seated at the table, 
their chairs drawn back. At the sight of them, 
Ward’s eyes narrowed. For there was a thin film of 
28 


THE TRIP 


smoke above their heads, and a single glance 
was all that was necessary to show him that four 
of the members of the party were smoking ciga- 
rettes. 

The discovery filled him with mingled surprise and 
disgust. The boys he had been accustomed to have 
as companions had always looked on smoking as an 
undesirable thing, and it had been an unbreakable 
rule of his school that men in training should take 
care of themselves, should not use tobacco in any 
way. But here was the Hillsdale captain and his best 
friends smoking cigarettes less than an hour before 
the first game of the season. It occurred to Ward, as 
he turned away, that the school itself was probably 
paying for the cigarettes. 

When the team joined him in the lobby, however, 
Ward made no comment upon what he had seen. He 
was both disgusted and angry, but he realized that he 
was only a new boy in the school and that anything 
he might say would have little weight. He resolved, 
though, that something ought to be done to change 
conditions at Hillsdale, and that as soon as he reached 
home he would have a conference with Bill Barrett 
and Squint Anderson about it. Bill Barrett was a 
leader, and Ward’s brief acquaintance with Squint 
29 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


had shown him that he was a boy of strong principles 
and willing to fight for them. 

The team drove to the Millville High School in 
Ward’s car, and when they reached the school build- 
ing they went down to the dressing room quietly ; but 
they did not say anything about the game, and Ben 
Powelson made no announcement as to his selection 
of players. When finally they trotted out upon the 
floor, however, Ben turned to Ward and laid a hand 
casually upon his shoulder. 

“I am going to start Art Denman at forward,” he 
announced evenly. “Maybe later in the game you 
will get a chance.” 

Ward nodded, not bothering to answer. He did 
not care whether he played or not; the team would be 
beaten, he knew, and he was almost glad that he 
would not have a part in the defeat. 

His prediction proved to be correct. At first the 
Hillsdale players held their own, but they tired 
rapidly ; and after ten minutes had gone by, they be- 
came heavy on their feet and played dully, without 
enthusiasm. When the first half was completed, 
they were fifteen points behind their opponents; and 
as they sat disconsolately in the dressing room, 
Ward noticed that the players began to blame one 
30 


THE TRIP 


another, to argue among themselves. But not one 
of them mentioned the real cause of the poor show- 
ing, not one of them was courageous enough to ad- 
mit that they had brought defeat upon themselves be- 
cause they were not men enough to abide by the rules 
of training. 

They went out on the floor for the second half still 
tired from their early exertions, and as the game pro- 
gressed their playing lost all semblance of form. 
With the final count 42 to 18 against them, the Hills- 
dale players filed into the dressing room at the end 
of the game, and threw themselves wearily upon the 
long wooden benches. Ward Jackson had not been 
given his chance; in spite of the fact that he was as 
good a player as the team captain himself, he had 
been forced to sit idly on the sidelines while the team 
went down to defeat. 

Ward decided then that he had been asked to make 
the trip simply because he had offered to take the 
players to Millville in his car. It was the car and 
not he that was wanted. 


CHAPTER IV 


AN AGREEMENT 

A FTER they had finished dressing, the mem- 
bers of the Hillsdale basketball team re- 
covered their spirits with amazing quick- 
ness. 

“It’s only the beginning of the season, anyhow,” 
Ben Powelson declared, “and we can tell the people 
back home that we need more practice before we can 
do anything.” 

Ward wondered if they would tell their schoolmates 
about the special meal they had ordered at the Man- 
sion House, or about the cigarettes they had smoked. 
He was half tempted to break the news himself, to let 
the boys and girls who were paying dues to the ath- 
letic association know how their money was being 
spent. But it did not seem to him to be quite the 
thing to do; they might think that he was “sore” be- 
cause he had not been given a chance to play in the 
game. 

He told himself grimly that it made no difference 
32 


AN AGREEMENT 


to him at all whether he played or not, but he knew 
in his heart of hearts that his pride had been hurt a 
bit. He wanted to be something more than a sub- 
stitute. 

On the way out of the high school building, Ben 
Powelson came over to him and regarded him quiz- 
zically. 

“Sorry I couldn’t give you a chance to-day,” he 
said. “But to tell the truth, Ward, I was so ‘all in’ 
during the second half that I forgot all about you. 
What we really need is a coach to look after things.” 

Ward smiled, but it was rather a grim smile, and, 
at the sight of it, Ben Powelson grimaced slightly. 

“But there’ll be a lot more games,” he added, 
placatingly, “and you won’t be forgotten next time.” 

But in his present frame of mind, Ward was not 
particularly impressed by the other boy’s advances. 
It looked to him as if the team captain had purposely 
kept him out and was now trying to make up for it 
with honeyed words. And Ward had decided that 
he was through with Powelson, through with his whole 
crowd. 

When Stretch Magens suggested, therefore, that 
they ‘stick around’ Millville until after supper, Ward 
vetoed the idea. 


33 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


“Can’t do it,” he said shortly. “My father ex- 
pects the car home this afternoon.” 

There was a loud protest at that, in which the 
whole team joined. 

“Don’t be a kill-joy, Ward,” Chuck Connors 
pleaded. “We won’t have so many trips this year, 
and we might just as well make a real party of this 
one.” 

“We can go down to the Mansion House for supper 
and then take in a movie,” Art Denman added. 
“We’ll be home by ten o’clock easily.” 

But Ward shook his head stubbornly. 

“Even if I could have the car,” he declared frankly, 
“I wouldn’t agree to it. It doesn’t look right to me 
to have the school pay for such things, anyhow. It 
isn’t honest.” 

Ben Powelson and the other players gazed at him 
in open-mouthed amazement. 

“What do you know about that?” Stretch Magens 
said finally. 

But Powelson attempted to throw oil on troubled 
waters. 

“They expect us to have a good time, Ward,” he 
said earnestly. “We’ve always done that kind of 
thing, and the other fellows expect it.” 

34 


AN AGREEMENT 


“How about Bill Barrett?” 

The team captain snorted. 

“Barrett gives me a pain,” he said shortly. 

They were standing beside the car, which had been 
left at the curb, and for a moment there was an 
awkward silence. Then Stretch Magens spoke. 

“The trouble with Jackson is that he’s sore be- 
cause he didn’t play to-day,” he said unpleasantly. 
“He thinks that just because he happened to be on 
the DeWitt Clinton team last year, we all ought to 
bow down to him. As far as I’m concerned. . . 

But Ben Powelson interrupted him. 

“No use fighting about it,” he said. “Jackson 
can go home if he wants to.” He hesitated for a 
moment. “The rest of us can stick around, though,” 
he suggested, “and go back by train later.” 

But the adventure seemed suddenly to have lost 
its zest. 

“We might just as well all go back,” Chuck Con- 
nors decided. 

It was rather a silent crowd that made the return 
trip to Hillsdale, however. Powelson, in the front 
seat with Ward, attempted a word now and then, but 
the other boy answered only gruffly. He was glad 
when finally they reached the high school building, 
35 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


and the other players got out. The team captain 
was the only one who stopped for a word with him. 

“I’m sorry about the way things turned out,” he 
said quietly. “But it would be just as well if you 
wouldn’t say anything to any one about it. There 
are other games, you know.” 

It seemed to Ward as if Ben Powelson was suggest- 
ing to him that, unless he kept still about the after- 
noon’s fiasco, he would not have much of a chance 
to play on the varsity in the remaining contests on 
the schedule. But he did not answer; and after he 
had put the car in the garage and finished his sup- 
per, he walked across town to the house where Bill 
Barrett lived. He found Squint Anderson there 
also, trying to persuade Bill to go to the “movies”; 
but at Ward’s arrival, they gave up the idea of going 
out and wanted to hear all about the game. 

Ward told them just what had happened, omitting 
none of the sordid details ; and when he had finished, 
Bill Barrett nodded grimly. 

“That kind of thing has been going on at the 
school for three years,” he said. “That is the reason 
I haven’t tried for the team this season.” 

“But why didn’t you tell me about it?” Ward de- 
manded. 


36 


AN AGREEMENT 


Bill smiled apologetically. 

“I was going to, Ward,” he explained, “but I 
thought it would be better for you to find out your- 
self. You’re new here, of course, and we didn’t 
know just how you’d take it.” 

Ward nodded grimly. 

“I see,” he said. But he was hurt, nevertheless; 
hurt because a fellow like Bill Barrett would think 
even for an instant that he would tolerate dishonesty 
in school affairs. 

Bill must have sensed something of his attitude, 
for his eyes were troubled and he sat for a long time 
looking into the glowing embers in the open fire- 
place. 

“Maybe,” he said finally, “the three of us could 
get together and see if something can’t be done to 
change things.” 

“Maybe we could.” Ward’s face brightened. 
“It seems to me that if the school only knew, they 
would jump all over Powelson and his crowd.” 

Bill Barrett, however, shook his head. 

“They know something about it already,” he 
answered. “But Ben seems to have them all buffa- 
loed. He can be mighty nice when he wants to, 
you know; and if any one starts a row, Ben begins 
37 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


to make up to him and the whole thing dies down.” 

“But how does he get away with it?” Ward de- 
manded. 

“He just does.” It was Squint Anderson who 
spoke this time. “We’re a small school, you know,” 
he explained, “and there are only three men teachers. 
The principal is too busy with other things to bother 
about athletics, and the other two teachers don’t seem 
to care anything about it. Ben is president of the 
athletic association, and Stretch Magens is treasurer. 
After basketball season. Stretch will simply hand in 
a statement of expenses, and the principal will ap- 
prove it. He never asks how the money is spent; 
and Stretch never takes any; he’s honest enough in 
that way.” 

“But isn’t there something we can do about it?” 

“I don’t know, except to start an open fight against 
the bunch that runs things now. But Ben Powelson 
has a lot of followers.” ' 

“Let’s start the fight then.” 

But Bill Barrett shook his head. 

“I don’t know whether it would do any good or 
not,” he said dubiously. “But how about you, 
Ward? What about the basketball team?” 

“I’m through.” Ward’s lips shut grimly. “I 
38 


AN AGREEMENT 


wouldn’t play for Ben Powelson any more if I never 
saw a basketball court again.” 

“You know what they’ll say about you, don’t you?” 

“What?” 

“That you quit because they didn’t put you in 
the Millville game.” 

“I don’t care if they do.” Ward spoke angrily. 
“I’m through.” 

“It won’t help you any around school,” Squint 
put in. “Bill told them that he wouldn’t play any 
more last year, and when the athletic association 
elections came around, Powelson beat him out for 
president. Bill was the most popular man in school 
before that.” 

“I don’t care what they think,” Ward maintained 
stubbornly. “I’m not going to play again.” 

“Even if you did go out some more, they probably 
wouldn’t give you a chance,” Bill declared. “Ben 
picks the team, you know, and only his friends get 
on. Phil Janeway is one of the best players in 
school, but they keep him on the scrubs because he 
won’t do everything they tell him to. He’s a good 
fellow, too.” 

“He can play basketball, anyhow.” 

For perhaps two minutes, the three boys were 
39 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


silent, while the logs crackled in the fireplace and 
the warmth of the leaping flames enveloped them. 
And then, suddenly, Ward stood up. 

“You play basketball, don’t you, Squint?” he 
asked. 

Squint Anderson nodded. 

“I played on the Junior Y. M. C. A. team two 
years ago,” he answered. “But I haven’t done any- 
thing in high school. Why?” 

But Ward ignored the question. 

“Bill likes to play, and so do I,” he announced, 
“and I think that Phil Janeway is just about sick 
and tired of being on the scrubs. I wonder if we 
couldn’t get some other high school fellow and organ- 
ize a team of our own. We could call ourselves the 
High School Outlaws, and maybe we could play 
some games with other teams. It would be a lot 
of fun, anyhow.” 

For a moment the two other boys regarded him 
doubtfully, then their faces lighted. 

“I don’t see why we couldn’t, ” Bill answered. 
“We could play at the Y. M. C. A. and have a lot 
of fun out of it. How about it, Squint?” 

The third member of the group nodded eagerly. 

“I may not be so very big,” he said, “but I’ll tell 
40 


AN AGREEMENT 

the world that I know as much about basketball as 
Ben Powelson does. It would be great.” 

“Let’s do it then.” Ward was all enthusiasm, 
but suddenly, he stopped. “The principal wouldn’t 
jump on us for trying it, would he?” he asked. 

Bill Barrett hastened to reassure him. 

“He’d like to have us do it, I think,” he answered. 
“He has an idea that every fellow in school ought to 
take some kind of exercise, and he always encourages 
class teams and things like that.” 

“Shall we go ahead, then?” 

“You bet we will.” Squint Anderson’s big eyes 
were beaming excitedly. “We’ll elect Bill captain, 
and he can speak to some of the fellows to-morrow. 
And maybe, before the season ends, we can play the 
regular high school team.” 

That was something Ward had not thought of; 
but at the mention of it, his eyes opened wide. If 
they could only play Ben Powelson’s team and beat 
them. . . . 

His lips shut grimly. If they only could! 


CHAPTER V 


THE CHALLENGE 

O N Monday afternoon Ward and Ben 
Powelson accidentally met in the cor- 
ridor of the school. The team captain 
nodded pleasantly, tacked a notice on the bulletin 
board, and turned to go to his room. After a mo- 
ment, however, he stopped and waited for Ward. 

“Practice this afternoon at four o’clock,” he said. 
“We’re going to give you a chance on the varsity 
to-day, Jackson.” 

Ward found himself wondering whether the team 
captain really meant what he said, and for a moment 
he was half tempted to report at the “Y” and find 
out. But he had already made his agreement with 
Bill Barrett and Squint, so he shook his head neg- 
atively and looked squarely into Powelson’s eyes. 

“Pve decided not to come out for the team any 
more,” he said directly. “You’d better stop count- 
ing on me.” 

The other boy’s eyes opened wide. 

42 


THE CHALLENGE 


“What’s the big idea?” he demanded. “Not sore 
because you didn’t get in the Millville game, are 
you?” 

Ward admitted that he was, just a little. 

“But that isn’t the reason I’m quitting,” he said 
quietly. “I didn’t like the way you fellows acted on 
Saturday.” 

“Humph!” Powelson’s face had turned suddenly 
crimson. “How did we act?” he asked. 

“You spent the school money on a big feed for 
yourselves when you knew that it would put you out 
of shape for the game. And after dinner, you broke 
training and smoked cigarettes.” Ward spoke de- 
fiantly. “That doesn’t go with me,” he finished. 

For a moment, Ben Powelson did not answer, then 
his eyes snapped angrily. 

“All right,” he said shortly. “We can get along 
without you, I guess.” 

But Ward noticed that he made no attempt to de- 
fend himself, or to justify his actions. Ward liked 
him better for that; at least he was not a hypo- 
crite. 

When school was ended for the day, Ward joined 
Bill Barrett and Squint Anderson on the stone steps 
of the building. 


43 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


“How did you make out with Phil Janeway?” he 
asked eagerly. 

Bill shook his head. 

“I didn’t say anything about it to him/’ he an- 
swered. “I got thinking it over to-day, Ward, and 
it didn’t seem quite right for us to try deliberately 
to take men away from the school team. That would 
be the kind of thing that the other crowd would 
do.” 

Ward nodded; he had not looked at it that way 
before. 

“What are we going to do?” he asked. 

“We’ll just post a notice on the bulletin board,” 
Bill answered, “and call for volunteers. Then, if 
the fellows come out, they’ll do it of their own 
accord.” 

“But first,” Squint Anderson put in, “we’re going 
to ask the principal’s permission. How about it 
now?” 

There did not seem to be any reason for putting 
if off, so the three boys went back to the office and 
had their interview with the head of the school. 
They did not tell him the real reason for their action, 
as they had decided that that would be too much 
like “squealing.” But as Bill had prophesied, the 
44 


THE CHALLENGE 

older man agreed to the plan at once, on one con- 
dition. 

“I would not call your team the High School Out- 
laws,” he said “It might create a wrong impression. 
But if you can find another name, I’ll be glad to 
have you go ahead.” 

They decided after a long discussion to call them- 
selves the Hillsdale Bears, and on the following 
morning, Bill posted a notice on the bulletin board. 

“A new basketball team called the Hillsdale Bears 
and made up of high school students will be organized 
this afternoon,” the announcement read. “All fel- 
lows who are interested will meet in the Chemistry 
room at three o’clock.” 

To say that the notice caused a sensation would be 
putting it mildly. The news spread around the 
school quickly, and during the noon hour, small 
groups collected in the corridors and talked in ex- 
cited whispers. Ben Powelson and other members 
of the varsity openly opposed the plan. 

“Just a bunch of soreheads getting together and 
trying to put something over on us,” was the way 
Stretch Magens put it. “They couldn’t make the 
first team, so they’re forming one of their own.” 

At least half of the school took sides with the 
45 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


varsity team. They openly referred to the new team 
as the “Soreheads,” and Ward was conscious of 
amused glances following him when he made his way 
to the different classrooms. Somehow the word had 
gone about that he had quit the varsity because he 
thought that he was too good for the other players, 
because he was “sore” at his failure to get in the 
Millville game. But he held his head high and 
went about his work with flashing eyes. He might 
be “sore,” he argued, but he had plenty of reason to 
be. 

He was anxious for the time of the meeting to 
roll around. If by any chance only four or five 
fellows reported, he knew that their cause would be 
a losing one, that they would be the laughing stock 
of the entire school. But he placed a good deal of 
faith in Bill Barrett. In spite of Bill’s failure to 
report for basketball, he was still one of the most 
popular members of the school, and it was already 
known that Bill was behind the new project, was its 
leader, in fact. 

Nevertheless, Ward hurried up to the Chemistry 
room at the appointed hour with fast beating heart. 
Bill and Squint were before him, but there were no 
other men present, and for a moment Ward felt the 
46 


THE CHALLENGE 


burden of defeat pressing down upon him. A minute 
later, however, Phil Janeway came in, and at the 
sight of him, the three other boys smiled broadly. 

“Glad to see you, Phil,” Bill Barrett said cordially. 
“But what about the other team? Are you going to 
quit?” 

Phil nodded grimly. 

“I’d just about decided to,” he answered quietly, 
“and your notice convinced me. As long as Ben 
Powelson’s captain, I won’t have a chance to do any- 
thing there.” His glance swept the room. “How 
about the others?” he asked. 

Bill smiled doubtfully. 

“There aren’t any others — yet,” he answered. 

But suddenly there were footsteps in the corridor, 
and four hoys entered. They were followed a minute 
later by three others, and still more began to straggle 
in singly or in pairs, until finally there were fifteen 
boys who had responded to the call. Ward did not 
know whether or not they could play basketball; but 
at least there were enough of them to make a good 
showing, and he was satisfied. Surely, he decided, 
there was at least one good player among them. 

He watched them curiously while Bill explained 
the purpose of the meeting. 

47 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


“Some of us have decided that we don’t quite like 
the way the first team is doing things,” he said 
frankly, “and we thought that it might be a good 
thing to form a team of our own. We can call our- 
selves the Hillsdale Bears, or something like that, 
and play games with other high schools. What do 
you men think about it?” 

Evidently, they thought it was a fine thing, for they 
were all enthusiastic over the plan and promised to 
report for practice at the Y. M. C. A. the next after- 
noon. 

“The first team has the gym on Mondays, Tuesdays, 
and Thursdays,” Bill announced, “and they’ve been 
in the habit of using it every day. But I’ve already 
spoken to the “Y” secretary, and he has promised us 
the floor three days a week. We can play on Satur- 
days, too, when the varsity is out of town.” 

Naturally, the new arrangement caused a loud pro- 
test from Ben Powelson and Ghuck Connors, but their 
arguments availed them nothing, and the “Y” secre- 
tary kept to his word. 

“These other fellows are members of the Associa- 
tion just as well as you,” he said. “And they have 
an equal right to use the basketball court.” 

On Wednesday afternoon, therefore, the candidates 
48 


THE CHALLENGE 


for the Hillsdale Bears reported at the gymnasium. 
The majority of them were small; but there were 
two or three larger fellows, and, even though they 
knew little about basketball, they were eager to learn 
and gave promise of development. A stocky, broad- 
shouldered boy, Ned Hankins, by name, proved the 
most apt pupil of the lot. 

“We can easily make a guard of him,” Bill de- 
cided. “He’s strong as an ox, and he’s fast, too. 
He can fit in all right, Ward.” 

The other boy nodded. Four of the places were 
already practically assured; Bill Barrett as center, 
Squint Anderson and Phil Janeway as forwards, and 
Ward himself as a guard. Both Bill and Phil were 
excellent players, and Squint Anderson, although 
small, had a keen eye for the basket and could easily 
hold up his end of things. 

In spite of the sneers of the varsity, the Bears 
continued their practice sessions. The school, at 
first indifferent, gradually grew interested in the new 
team, and when Squint, who had been chosen 
manager, posted up a schedule of games on the 
bulletin board, a large crowd collected in front of 
it. At the sight of them, Ben Powelson’s eyes nar- 
rowed. 


49 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


The first contest was played on a Saturday after- 
noon when the varsity was out of town; and as the 
new team filed out of the dressing room, Ward was 
surprised to find the gallery almost filled with high 
school students. Ward’s father, after he had been 
told of the circumstances, had ordered complete outfits 
for the whole team, and the gallery gasped as the 
players appeared in their scarlet-jerseyed uniforms. 
They were better suits than the varsity had. 

That first game proved to be a walk-away for the 
Bears. Their opponents were not especially strong, 
to be sure, but the winners proved themselves excel- 
lent basketball players, and their schoolmates cheered 
them to the echo. It seemed to Ward that the cheer- 
ing was more spontaneous, more sincere, than any he 
had yet heard at Hillsdale. 

The Bears, however, did not permit their initial 
success to turn their heads. They knew that they 
were by no means unbeatable, but they knew too that 
they had something that the varsity lacked; a real 
love for the game and an unselfish desire to give the 
best that they had to victory. Moreover, they were 
always in perfect condition, and they had the ad- 
vantage of Ward’s experience of last year, when he 
had played on a team that had been coached by ex- 
50 


THE CHALLENGE 


perts. They played together, as a unit, and they 
were always clean. 

They lost their second game by a narrow margin, 
but the next two contests resulted in victories, and 
the school began to sit up and take notice. And 
when, less than five weeks after their organization, 
they went to Millville and defeated the high school 
team of the larger city, even the varsity players were 
forced to admit that they had justified themselves. 

The first team members, however, accepted the 
situation with bad grace. 

“The only reason they beat Millville was because 
they had more practice then we did,” Chuck Connors 
explained to a listening group in the corridor of the 
school. “But they’d never dare to play us; we’d 
wipe up the floor with them.” 

Bill Barrett, who happened to be passing at the 
moment, stopped in his tracks and regarded Chuck 
with flashing eyes. 

“I’ll tell you what we’ll do, Connors,” he said 
quietly. “We haven’t any game this Saturday, and 
neither have you. We’ll play you then, if you want 
to, and the team that wins will be the Hillsdale 
varsity. How about it?” 

For a moment, the other boy did not answer, 
51 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


while the surrounding group, sensing the dramatic, 
watched curiously. Then Connors snorted. 

“Of course we’ll play you,” he answered bluster- 
ingly. “And before we’ve finished with you, you’ll 
wish you never saw a basketball.” 

Bill nodded. 

“On Saturday then,” he said shortly. 

“Yes, on Saturday.” 

For a moment, the two boys regarded each other 
defiantly. Then Bill turned away to tell Ward and 
the others of the challenge. 


CHAPTER VI 


THE VARSITY 

T HE balcony of the big Y. M. C. A. 

gymnasium was filled to overflowing, and 
even the triple rows of chairs which had 
been placed along the sidelines of the basketball 
court were not enough to give places to everybody. 
People who had followed Hillsdale athletic teams 
for years declared that never in all the history of 
the school had there been such enthusiasm, such 
widespread interest in a contest. It promised to be 
a gala occasion. 

In the dressing room of the “Y,” Ward Jackson 
and his team mates dressed slowly, trying to fight 
down the nervousness which assailed them. Occa- 
sionally, some one spoke, but mostly they were silent, 
busy with their own thoughts. It seemed to Ward 
as if the time for them to go out upon the court 
would never come. 

He was more nervous than he had ever remem- 
bered being, but, in spite of his nervousness, he was 

53 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


fairly confident of the outcome. The varsity team, 
to be sure, had played together for two years or 
more; they knew each other’s ways, knew each man’s 
weakness and strong points. But in spite of their 
experience, they were ignorant of the fine points of 
the game, their teamwork was woefully weak, and 
their chances of victory lay in the individual playing 
of Ben Powelson and Stretch Magens. 

The Bears, on the other hand, were a new team; 
they had played together in only a few contests, and 
Ned Hankins was obviously a greenhorn. To 
counteract his inexperience, however, the team had 
two especially good men — Bill Barrett at center, 
and Ward Jackson at guard. Ward was certain from 
what he had seen that Bill was a better player than 
Powelson, and he was fairly sure that he himself 
would be able to hold Stretch Magens even. With 
the varsity’s two star players held in check, the ad- 
vantage would surely be with the Hillsdale Bears. 

But it was not that so much as it was the condition 
of the opposing players upon which Ward placed 
his hopes of victory. He had learned from casual 
inquiry that the varsity men had continued their 
practice of having a good time at out-of-town games ; 
and once, less than a week ago, he had passed Stretch 
54 


THE VARSITY 


Magens downtown when the other boy held a cig- 
arette between his lips. Ward was experienced 
enough in athletics to realize that a man could not 
play basketball and break training rules at the same 
time. 

After they had trotted out upon the floor, to the 
accompaniment of thunderous cheers. Ward glanced 
curiously to the far end of the court, where the 
varsity players were throwing baskets. They were 
going about their task grimly, with evident de- 
termination, and seemingly without doubt as to the 
final result. Ward knew then that Ben Powelson 
and his team mates were ready to play the game of 
their lives, to give everything that they had to justify 
their position as the best team in the school. And 
at the sight of their grim faces, his own confidence 
weakened a little. He found himself wondering if, 
after all, he was going to fail. 

When once the game began, however, his doubts 
left him. All that mattered was to close his fingers 
around the elusive ball, to toss it through the basket, 
or pass it to one of his waiting team mates. 

But, for some reason or other, things were not 
going well with the Bears. It may have been their 
inexperience, or possibly the varsity was better than 
55 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


they had supposed ; but at any rate. Art Denman made 
two baskets in rapid succession, and Stretch Magens 
followed with a sensational toss over his head. 
This unexpected spurt at the very beginning of the 
game placed the Bears at once upon the defensive, 
shook their confidence, so that for a few minutes 
they forgot to play as a team, forgot all what Ward 
had taught them, and rushed wildly around the 
court, making futile efforts to snatch the ball from 
their grim-faced opponents. It looked, before ten 
minutes had passed, as if the varsity would run away 
with the game, would romp through the contest to 
an easy victory. The Hillsdale Bears were clearly 
demoralized, helpless in the face of unexpected op- 
position. 

For a minute or two. Ward found himself follow- 
ing the example of his team mates, rushing wildly 
from one varsity player to another, expending his 
strength in useless effort. And then, pulling him- 
self together, he raised his hand and called for 
time. It was the one thing to do under the circum- 
stances. 

Catching Bill Barrett’s eyes, he motioned for the 
other boy to call the team together. 

“Fellows,” he said quietly, when they had grouped 
56 


THE VARSITY 


themselves around him, “we’ve gone all to pieces, 
and it’s up to us to get hold of ourselves. Let’s come 
down to earth. We’re ten points behind, but if we 
remember what we’ve learned about teamwork and 
play the game we know how to play, we can pull up 
even before the half’s over. Let’s get going.” 

His words, somehow, quieted the jumping nerves 
of his team mates, brought them back to their former 
attitude of confidence. When the whistle blew again, 
they trotted to their positions, their hysteria gone, 
their faces grim with purpose. Almost before the 
varsity realized it, Squint Anderson had scored a 
basket. The Bears were beginning to find them- 
selves. 

For the remainder of the half it was an uphill 
fight, with each man giving the best that he had, while 
the gallery cheered huskily and the building shook 
with the volume of sound. Slowly, but surely, how- 
ever, the varsity lost its lead. Ben Powelson, gen- 
erally their largest scorer, was held in check by the 
careful guarding of Bill Barrett; and Stretch Magens 
himself, who was depended upon to “come through” 
when his captain failed, felt the ball snatched from 
his fingers time and again by a fighting whirl- 
wind who dogged every footstep. Before the 
57 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


half was quite ended, the despised Bears tossed a 
basket which made the score a tie, and when the 
whistle blew for the intermission, the count was still 
even; but a ten point lead had been cut down to no 
lead at all. 

Between the halves the members of the varsity 
team stretched themselves out upon the bare wooden 
benches, breathing heavily, their faces bathed in per- 
spiration. They did not talk among themselves, were 
apparently satisfied just to lie still in a desperate 
effort to recover their waning strength. Ward, 
glancing over at them, knew that they had given 
all they had to the grim conflict of the first half, had 
even called upon some of their reserve. Only Ben 
Powelson was different; he sat slightly apart from 
the others, his chin in his hands, his eyes brooding. 
But there was no sulkiness in his manner, no hint of 
defeat. It seemed to Ward as if he was wondering 
about something which he could not quite under- 
stand. 

When the whistle blew for a resumption of play, 
Powelson called his men together and spoke to them 
in words which Ward could not hear. They nodded 
indifferently and jogged out upon the floor, but their 
faces were lined with sort of a dull resignation, and 
58 


THE VARSITY 

a good deal of their fighting spirit had gone from 
them. 

For the first few minutes of the second period, 
they held their own, and then, as if something had 
snapped within them, they lost their effectiveness. 
They did not dash wildly after the ball as the Bears 
had done when defeat threatened them; instead, they 
stood stolidly in their places, calling occasionally for 
time, holding the ball whenever the opportunity pre- 
sented itself. And they began to foul, checking with 
their bodies, charging their opponents. Gradually 
the score of the opposing team mounted, time and 
again the ball fell through the netted basket; and, 
after each point, the Hillsdale varsity walked wearily 
back to their places, their limbs heavy with fatigue. 

There was only one member of their team who 
fought at all; and that was Ben Powelson, their cap- 
tain. In spite of the indifference of his fellow 
players, in spite of their stoical acceptance of defeat, 
the varsity center played the best game that he knew 
how to play. Watching him, Ward Jackson was 
conscious of a growing admiration for the other boy; 
whatever else might be said against him, he at least 
did not know how to quit. 

But with Stretch Magens it was different. Stretch, 
59 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


his eyes shining angrily, hung grimly to Ward’s 
shifting figure, talking to him in husky undertones all 
during the play, fouling him with arms and elbows, 
calling him a “stuck-up prude,” a “sorehead.” He 
was fighting, to be sure, but not in the way of a sports- 
man; and toward the end of the game, when Ward 
threw baskets almost at will, he deliberately dropped 
his hands to his side and told Ben Powelson that he 
was through. 

“I’m all in,” he announced gruffly. “You’ll have 
to give some one else a chance.” 

The boy who rushed in as a substitute helped the 
varsity a little, but it was a losing battle they were 
waging. Their lack of training told heavily upon 
them, the game became a rout, until Bill Barrett’s 
team was twenty points in the lead. And when 
eventually the final whistle blew and the Bears had 
almost doubled the score of the varsity, the losing 
team did not even gather for the usual cheer for 
the victors. Only Ben Powelson took his defeat 
like a man; walking over to where the beaming Bill 
Barrett was standing, he held out his hand. 

“Congratulations, Bill,” he said quietly. “You 
played a good game.” 


60 


THE VARSITY 

Bill took the outstretched hand and gripped it 
firmly. 

“So did you, Ben,” he said. 

They walked back to the dressing room, where 
the varsity players sat exhaustedly, too tired even 
to take off their uniforms. But they knew, even as 
they waited, that they had worn those suits for the 
last time, that they were no longer the Hillsdale 
team. New methods had replaced the old ones, a 
new force had entered the life of the school. Play- 
ing ability, and not personal friendship, was here- 
after to determine the membership of all athletic 
teams. 

The Bears dressed quickly, elated over their 
victory, but refraining from any expression of their 
happiness. After a time, when they were alone, they 
could talk over the game, but they had no desire to 
“rub it in” to the losers. The winning of the contest 
was enough in itself. 

They lingered in the locker room, however, waiting 
until the other players should go out. The members 
of the losing team went upstairs finally, all but Ben 
Powelson who stood alone in one corner of the room. 
After a time, when Ward and his team mates had 


61 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 

finished dressing, he walked over to where they were 
standing. 

“Bill,” he said huskily, as if he did not know 
quite how to begin, “you’re captain of the Hillsdale 
varsity now, I suppose.” 

Bill Barrett nodded. 

“I guess so, Ben,” he answered. “That was the 
agreement, you know.” 

Powelson cleared his throat. 

“I — I’m wondering if you’d mind if I came out 
for the team,” he ventured. “I don’t want any 
favors, only the chance to make it if I can play good 
enough.” 

For a moment, the new varsity captain hesitated, 
then he smiled. 

“We’d be glad to have you or any one else try 
for the team,” he answered. 

“Thanks!” For a moment Ben was silent, then 
his eyes swept the group of curious boys around him. 
“I’m through with the other crowd, fellows,” he said 
evenly. “I didn’t realize just what we were doing 
until Ward Jackson and some of you others began 
to quit. Then I tried to stop it, but they Wouldn’t 
listen.” He smiled grimly. “But now I’m through,” 
he finished. 


62 


THE VARSITY 


Bill Barrett nodded without speaking, but sud- 
denly Ward found himself standing beside Powelson, 
with his hand on the other boy’s shoulder. 

° ‘You’re the only one of your team who didn’t 
quit to-day, Ben,” he said. “And — and we’ll be 
glad to have you with us.” 

The Hillsdale Bears and Ben Powelson, former 
captain of the varsity, walked out of the dressing 
room together. 


CHAPTER VII 


BRIGHT PROSPECTS 

T HERE was no doubt of the fact that Hills- 
dale was behind the new varsity. In the 
first place, the team was so much better than 
the one which formerly represented the school that 
there seemed every likelihood of finishing the season 
without a single defeat. And the Hillsdale students, 
like every one else, were always willing to cheer for 
a winner. 

In the second place, there was a novelty in the 
situation which appealed even to those pupils who 
had not formerly been interested. The whole school 
began to talk basketball, even to drop in at the 
Y. M. C. A. to watch the practice. Ward suddenly 
found himself the center of attraction, almost a 
hero. 

The development was something new in the his- 
tory of the school, something which had never hap- 
pened before. There were rumors at first that Stretch 
Magens and the other players were going to go, back 
64 


BRIGHT PROSPECTS 


on their agreement and refuse to recognize the Bears 
as the Hillsdale varsity. 

66 We’ve got the suits and the name, and we’re 
going to keep them,” Stretch was reported to have 
said. “Ben Powelson was elected captain of the 
basketball team and we were chosen by him to repre- 
sent the school. Where does this other gang come 
in, anyhow?” 

But when, on Monday morning, Bill Barrett posted 
a notice on the bulletin board calling for practice at 
the Y. M. C. A. that afternoon and urging all boys 
of the schpol who had ever played basketball to come 
out for the team, there was no second announcement 
from the former basketball manager, and Ward knew 
that their battle was won. Stretch Magens could be 
as defiant as he wanted to, but, in the face of the 
school’s attitude, he was helpless to take any effective 
action. 

Ward had expected to reach the gymnasium early, 
but just before the three o’clock bell sounded, a 
messenger from the office came into his study room 
with a note requesting him to report to the principal. 
Mystified and just a bit apprehensive, he obeyed the 
summons, and was surprised to find Bill Barrett 
and Squint Anderson also in the office. The prin- 
65 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


cipal, a middle-aged man with the face of a scholar 
and with troubled eyes, was writing at a desk in one 
corner; and for a few minutes he did not look up. 
Finally, however, he turned in his chair and re- 
garded them doubtfully. 

“What is this I hear about a new varsity basket- 
ball team?” he asked abruptly. 

Bill Barrett cleared his throat. 

“It’s true,” he explained. “You remember, don’t 
you, Mr. Marsh, about the team we organized called 
the Hillsale Bears? You said we could do it.” 

The principal nodded. 

“Yes,” he said, “I remember.” 

“Well, the varsity team challenged us to play them 
last week,” Bill continued, “and we accepted on the 
condition that the team that won would be the Hills- 
dale team for the rest of the season. On Saturday 
afternoon, we beat them, and now we’re going to be 
the varsity.” 

“I see.” The old man tapped thoughtfully on the 
desk with his finger. “How is it,” he asked, “that 
a group of boys can get together and defeat a team 
that is supposed to include the best players in the 
school?” 

Bill did not quite know what to answer. 

66 


BRIGHT PROSPECTS 


“I — ” he began. 

But Squint Anderson interrupted him. 

“The varsity wasn’t composed of the best players 
in the school,” he declared bluntly. “It was made 
up of fellows who happened to be friends of Ben 
Powelson and Stretch Magens.” 

The principal’s eyes opened wide. 

“Do you mean to say,” he demanded, “that ability 
wasn’t the only factor in selecting the team?” 

“Yes, sir, that’s what I mean to say,” Squint an- 
swered grimly. 

“Humph!” The older man turned troubled eyes 
to Ward. “Jackson,” he asked, “do you find con- 
ditions here greatly different from those at the school 
you last attended?” 

Ward nodded. 

“Yes, sir,” he said. “In New York, the athletics 
were well organized, there was a coach for every 
team, and the fellows kept in training.” 

“Meaning that they don’t here?” The principal 
was silent for a long time. “We have a baseball 
coach,” he said finally, “but the other sports have 
been more or less haphazard. I must look into the 
matter.” 

He turned toward his desk again, and the three 

67 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


boys, after a moment of hesitation, filed out of the 
office. Once on the steps of the school, Ward turned 
to his companions hopefully. 

“Maybe he’ll get a coach for the basketball team,” 
he suggested. “And if he does, it will help out a 
lot.” 

But Bill Barrett shook his head. 

“He might mean to,” he explained, “but some- 
thing else will come up and he’ll forget all about it.” 

“Mr. Marsh is a mighty fine chap,” Squint added, 
“but he’s sort of absent-minded, and he thinks more 
of books than anything else. You’d better not count 
too much on him. Ward.” 

Ward was disappointed, but he grinned, neverthe- 
less. 

“Anyhow,” he said, “he didn’t say that we couldn’t 
be the varsity.” 

“No,” Bill agreed, “ that part of it’s all right.” 

They found almost thirty fellows waiting for them 
at the Y. M. C. A. The candidates were composed 
chiefly of the squads of the two former rival teams, 
but there were a few boys who had not reported be- 
fore. Ward had no doubt, however, but that Ben 
Powelson was the best of the lot, and he was curious 
to see whether or not Ben would keep his promise to 
68 


BRIGHT PROSPECTS 


report. He found the former captain in the locker 
room, however, and, at the sight of Bill Barrett, Ben 
came over to where the new leader had started to 
dress. 

“How about the varsity suits, Bill?” he asked. 
“You’ll want them for the team, won’t you?” 

Bill hesitated. The uniforms which the Bears had 
worn were really better -than the varsity suits. 
Still. . . . 

“Sure we want them,” he answered. “We’re the 
school team now, and we ought to wear the regular 
uniform.” 

“I’ll see if I can get them for you by to-morrow.” 

“Thanks.” 

Ward guessed, however, that Ben’s job was not 
going to be an easy one. Not one of the former 
varsity players had reported for practice ; apparently, 
in spite of their captain’s action, they had decided to 
hold together, to ignore the new order of things. 
Ward, noting their absence, was seized with a vague 
foreboding. Perhaps things weren’t going to go so 
smoothly, after all. 

But before the end of the week, a good deal of his 
apprehension vanished. The squad was so enthusi- 
astic, entered into the practice scrimmages so whole- 
69 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


heartedly, that the success of the season seemed 
assured. There was only one fly in the ointment; 
and that was the case of Ned Hankins. 

Ned was one of the best fellows that ever lived, and 
he had stood by Ward and his friends when they most 
needed help. But he was a new man at basketball 
and could not compare with Ben Powelson in play- 
ing ability. According to his promise to Ben, Bill 
Barrett was honor bound to give the former captain a 
place on the team if he deserved it ; and there was no 
doubt of the fact that Ben was sincere in his desire 
to make the varsity. But if he was given a place, it 
meant that Hankins would have to be dropped — and 
Bill did not want to drop him. 

He talked it over with Ward and Squint after 
practice on Friday afternoon. 

“I don’t know what to do to-morrow about Ben and 
Ned,” he confessed miserably. “Ben is a better 
player and we need him, but it doesn’t seem right, 
somehow, to leave Ned off.” 

Squint Anderson, however, only shook his head 
grimly. 

“This is the school team,” he said, “and it’s up to 
you to look at it from the standpoint of the school. 
If you’re going to play favorites, you’ll be doing ex- 
70 


BRIGHT PROSPECTS 


actly the same thing that you’ve been kicking about.” 

“Yes, I know. But Ned stood by us right along.” 

“Why not speak to him about it?” Ward sug- 
gested. 

“It’s the only thing to do, I guess.” 

“Might as well get it over with, “Squint said. 
“He’s probably upstairs now.” 

The secretary, however, told them that Ned had 
left the building. 

“No one’s around,” he explained, “except Ben 
Powelson; and he’s in the reading room.” 

Ben must have heard them talking, for he came out 
to the main lobby at that moment, and nodded 
smilingly to them. 

“Just the fellows I’m looking for,” he said. 
“I — ” He hesitated a moment. “I’m wondering 
about to-morrow’s game. I’d like to get in, of 
course, but Ned Hankins deserves it more than I do, 
and if you want to play him, I’ll understand about it.” 

It seemed to Ward as if Ben was doing a mighty 
big thing; and evidently Bill Barrett thought so too. 

“We’ve been talking it over, Ben,” he said frankly, 
“but it seems to us that you’re the best player and you 
ought to go in. We’re going to speak to Ned about 
it.” 


71 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


The other boy nodded. 

“If Ned’s at all hurt,” he suggested, “start him in 
the game and don’t worry about me.” 

When they put the thing up to Hankins that night, 
however, Ned hastened to reassure them. 

“I was going to speak about it myself,” he an- 
nounced. “To tell the truth, Bill, I don’t like basket- 
ball very much and I only came out because I wanted 
to support you fellows in what you were doing. And, 
if it’s all the same to you, I’m going to quit reporting 
for practice. I’ve got a lot of things to do at home 
and basketball takes a lot more time than I can 
spare.” 

They tried to dissuade him, of course; but deep 
down in their hearts they were relieved at the easy 
solution to the problem. There were two or three 
varsity substitutes who could be used in an emer- 
gency, and Ned would not be missed. 

“He’s a good fellow just the same,” Squint de- 
clared, after they had left him. “And if Stretch 
Magens and his gang start anything, we may need 
Ned yet.” 

It did not look, though, as if Stretch would at- 
tempt any opposition to the basketball team; for on 
the following day the rejuvenated Hillsdale varsity 
72 


BRIGHT PROSPECTS 


won a notable victory over Valley Brook; and the 
school was behind it, heart and soul. 

There was no doubt of the fact that the team was a 
good one. Ben Powelson had been moved to forward 
and Ward switched to a guard position, and the new 
combination worked well. On Wednesday after- 
noon, the team journeyed to Tanwood and came home 
with another victory; and on the following Saturday, 
they won from Winston by an overwhelming score. 
It seemed almost too good to be true, and the school 
went wild with delight. 

It was a new Hillsdale which presented itself to 
Ward Jackson. He had thought at first that there 
was something the matter with the school spirit; that 
the students did not care whether their teams won or 
not, were willing to stand by impassively and let men 
like Stretch Magens run things as they saw fit. But 
now, with Stretch relegated to the background, the 
enthusiasm of the school knew no bounds; boys and 
girls alike attended each game in increasing numbers, 
organized a cheering section, made heroes of the 
basketball players. 

Ward decided, after their third victory, that he 
had misjudged his schoolmates, had underrated them. 
They were as loyal and true as any crowd he had ever 
73 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


known, and he was suddenly glad that he had come 
to Hillsdale, had won the right to represent the school 
on the basketball team. 

In an excess of enthusiasm, he suggested to the 
members of the squad that he try to arrange a game 
with DeWitt Clinton for the final contest of the 
season. 

“They aren’t so awfully strong this year,” he said, 
“and I wouldn’t be surprised if we could beat them.” 

The others agreed eagerly. 

“Go ahead and see if they can come out to Hills- 
dale,” Squint urged him. “The school will be crazy 
about it.” 

So Ward arranged for the game, and then, just 
when it seemed as if nothing could happen to spoil 
the success of the season, Ben Powelson announced 
that his family had decided to move to another town, 
and that he would have to leave with them. 

“Dad’s got a new job on the railroad at Pittsfield,” 
he said, “and he’s already found a house for us there. 
There’s nothing to do except go, I guess.” 

The members of the varsity basketball team re- 
garded one another with startled eyes. With Ben 
gone, the team would lose fully one-third of its 
strength. And there were still four games to play. 

74 


CHAPTER VIII 


SCHOOL SPIRIT 

W ARD told himself angrily that he might 
have known something would happen, 
that the victory over Stretch Magens 
and the opposing faction had been almost too easy 
to be permanent. With Ben Powelson at Hillsdale, 
everything would have been smooth sailing; but with 
Ben gone, the road to the end of the season would 
be a hard one. 

Evidently, no one knew it better than Bill Barrett; 
for, on the afternoon following Ben’s announcement, 
he called the squad together in the locker room and 
regarded them with troubled eyes. 

“Fellows,” he said, “we’re sort of up against it. 
The school has learned to expect victory from us, and 
if we want their support we’ve got to keep on winning. 
But without Ben, I don’t see how we’re going to do it.” 

The others nodded; and Ward was surprised at the 
hopelessness of their attitudes. But what impressed 
75 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


him even more deeply was Bill’s statement concerning 
the school. Surely, he argued, Hillsdale would sup- 
port a losing team as well as a winning one, so long 
as the players gave all they had toward the victory. 

“It seems to me,” he said, “that the school will be 
behind us, no matter what happens. But that isn’t 
here nor there; no matter what the school does, it’s 
up to us to get together and do the best that we can. 
It won’t do any good to lay down now.” 

Squint Anderson nodded grimly. 

“We’ve got to keep on,” he agreed. “Let’s go to 
it.” 

The team took heart at that, and went out upon the 
court determinedly, with the light of battle in their 
eyes. Carlton, former varsity substitute, was placed 
at guard, and Ward shifted to forward. Against the 
scrubs, the new combination worked well, but when 
practice was ended, Ward admitted that the loss of 
Ben Powelson was a handicap which even an un- 
daunted fighting spirit could not overcome. 

He was sorry that Ben had gone, sorry for more 
reasons than one. For he had counted upon Ben to 
hold in check any opposition which might develop on 
the part of Stretch Magens and his followers; and he 
was certain that, with their former leader gone, the 
76 


SCHOOL SPIRIT 


Magens crowd would do everything possible to “get 
back” at the basketball team. Moreover, during the 
past two weeks, Ward had learned to think a lot of 
Powelson; the other boy was a born leader and a hard 
fighter, and Ward was conscious of a sense of per- 
sonal loss at his departure. 

And then, too, there was the matter of the ap- 
proaching contest with DeWitt Clinton. Ward had 
arranged the game in the firm belief that Hillsdale 
would win, or would at least give a good account 
of herself. But now, with one of her strongest 
players out of the line-up, the smaller school faced 
almost certain defeat. And Ward did not want to 
be beaten by DeWitt Clinton. 

There was nothing he could do, however, except 
to accept things as he found them and give every- 
thing he had to the four remaining games on the 
schedule. The school itself was surprisingly in- 
different to the loss of Powelson; the students were 
sorry that Ben had gone, of course, but they did not 
realize how much he had meant to the team, and there 
were plenty of substitutes. 

At the game with Linden on Saturday, therefore, 
they filled the balconies of the gymnasium and, 
throughout the preliminary practice, cheered with 
77 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 

all their old enthusiasm. Even at the end of the 
first half, when Hillsdale was six poinfrs behind, 
their optimism did not wane; the team would come 
through in the second period, they argued, and win 
easily. 

But when the final whistle blew and the score re- 
mained relatively the same, their cheers died away 
into vague mumblings, and they shuffled out of the 
building with dubious eyes and troubled faces. They 
had expected to double Linden’s total, at least. 

After he had dressed, Ward passed Stretch Magens 
in the lobby upstairs. The other boy seemed to be 
waiting for the team to make its appearance, and at 
the sight of the disheartened players, he grinned 
openly, triumphantly. Ward knew then that Stretch 
had neither forgiven nor forgotten the events of the 
past few weeks. 

At school on Monday morning there was a notice- 
able change in the attitude of the student body. The 
basketball players were no longer heroes; classmates 
did not pat them on the back and tell them what won- 
ders they were. Ward could not quite understand 
it; in his mind, school spirit was something which 
grew stronger in defeat, which awakened to a greater 
sense of loyalty with each successive setback. But 
78 


SCHOOL SPIRIT 

in Hillsdale, apparently, spirit was kept alive only 
by victory. 

Ward shut his lips grimly and reported for prac- 
tice as soon as the afternoon session was ended. He 
noted that the squad was smaller than usual, that 
several of the candidates had not appeared. Bill 
Barrett, his face troubled but his eyes shining, 
dressed quietly in one corner and made no comment. 
But with Squint Anderson it was different. 

“Some of the people up at school make me sick,” 
he announced with characteristic bluntness. “Just 
because we happen to lose a game, they act as if we 
haven’t got a team any more. But we’ll show them 
yet.” 

Even Squint’s undaunted spirit was not enough, 
however, to atone for the absence of Ben Powelson. 
The team worked hard and faithfully, and those 
players on the scrub who had not dropped out at the 
first defeat supported the varsity with all the loyalty 
they possessed. But when Thursday rolled around 
and there was no noticeable improvement in the play- 
ing of the team, Bill Barrett called Ward, Squint, 
and Phil Janeway together to find out if something 
could not be done. 

“We might possibly use Ned Hankins at guard,” 
79 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


he suggested, “but Carlton’s almost as good, and 
Ned is out of practice now. And there’s only one 
thing that I can think of.” 

“What’s that?” Squint asked. 

“We might ask Stretch Magens to come out for 
the team.” 

For a moment, the three other boys were silent. 
To go to Stretch would be to admit their helplessness, 
and they were fairly certain as to what their reception 
would be. Still, Stretch was a member of the school, 
and the school needed him. 

“We might try it,” Ward said doubtfully. “It 
wouldn’t do any harm, anyhow.” 

“He’ll only laugh at us,” Squint declared. 

Nevertheless, they decided to try it. 

“If you’re willing, Ward, we’ll drop around to his 
house to-night,” Bill suggested. 

Ward wasn’t especially anxious for the job, but he 
went nevertheless. Stretch opened the door of his 
home himself, and at the sight of them he smiled 
knowingly. But he did not ask them in; instead, he 
shut the front door after him and stood on the lighted 
porch with them. 

“What can I do for you fellows?” he asked. 

There was nothing encouraging in his attitude, and 
80 


SCHOOL SPIRIT 


Bill Barrett did not waste any time on preliminaries. 

“We need another forward for the basketball 
team,” he said directly, “and we’re wondering if 
you won’t come out for the place.” 

Stretch made some kind of noise; but Ward wasn’t 
sure whether it was a snort or a chuckle. 

“What team are you talking about?” he asked 

“Hillsdale, of course.” 

“Oh, yes! And you want me to try for it?” 

Bill Barrett nodded, not trusting himself to speak. 

“I might consider it,” Stretch continued. “But 
if I do come out, it will be on one condition.” 

“What’s that?” Bill asked. 

Stretch Magens waited for a moment; then his lips 
curled. 

“On the condition,” he announced, “that you and 
Jackson and Squint Anderson resign.” 

Ward’s jaw dropped in sheer amazement, and for 
a moment Bill was too surprised to speak. Then his 
face grew crimson; but he answered quietly enough. 

“We can’t do that, of course,” he said. 

“Then it’s all off.” 

“Is that final?” 

“Yes.” 

The team captain turned to Ward. 

81 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


“No use wasting our time here,” he said shortly, 
“Let’s get on.” 

Stretch Magens bowed elaborately. 

“Come again some time,” he offered in mock po- 
liteness. “And now I must bid you good night.” 

“Good night!” Bill answered; but Ward said 
nothing. 

The interview, of course, became known about the 
school. Stretch Magens made capital of it, sought 
to ridicule the basketball team because of it. It 
became rumored that the team were ready to quit, 
had begged Magens to help them out, had told him 
that they needed him to save the season from utter 
rout. The school smiled about it, and accepted the 
matter as a good joke on Bill Barrett and the others. 

“I knew they would come off their high horse in 
a little while,” Chuck Connors declared. “They 
can’t get along at Hillsdale without Stretch and his 
bunch.” 

It seemed as if Chuck was right, for on the follow- 
ing Saturday, the team met Cranfield in the latter’s 
court and was defeated by a one-sided score. The 
dozen or so rooters who had accompanied the squad 
came back with reports that the team had lost its 
punch, and prophesied a humiliating defeat at the 
82 


SCHOOL SPIRIT 


hands of DeWitt Clinton. There were only two more 
games before the close of the season ; one with Union 
on Wednesday, and the final contest on Saturday with 
the big school from New York. But the school did 
not seem particularly interested; already there was 
talk of baseball and track, and basketball was ap- 
parently a dead issue. 

Ward decided then that his first estimate of Hills- 
dale was more or less the right one. There was no 
doubt but that there was something the matter with 
the spirit of the school. What Hillsdale needed was 
some one to wake it up; some one big enough to 
show the students, boys and girls alike, that a losing 
team which did the best that it could was as deserving 
of support as a brilliant team which won easily. A 
college man could do it, a real man who could get 
under a fellow’s skin and give him the right view- 
point. But, unfortunately, Hillsdale was lacking in 
just such a man. 

If the basketball team could only win against 
Union, Ward had hopes that there would be a big 
turnout for the DeWitt Clinton game. He was 
worried about that game, and sorry that he had 
scheduled it, for he knew that it would be humiliating 
to him to be defeated by his former schoolmates, and 
83 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


doubly so if the visiting players so much as suspected 
that Hillsdale was not behind its team. Whatever 
happened, Ward decided, the school must show its 
loyalty in that one game. 

On Wednesday, however, the crowd in the bal- 
conies was smaller than it had been since Bill Barrett’s 
team had won the right to the title of varsity. There 
was no attempt to organize a cheering section, and 
the enthusiasm was only lukewarm, even when the 
first half ended with Hillsdale in the lead. Fortu- 
nately, Union was not very strong, and Ward had high 
hopes of victory; hut toward the end of the game, 
even when it seemed certain that they were going to 
win, the students in the gallery watched indifferently. 
Subconsciously, Ward sensed their attitude; after 
two successive defeats, it would take more than a 
victory over Union to arouse them from their leth- 
argy. 

The team won, however, cleanly and without 
question; and even though it seemed to make 
little difference to the school, the players them- 
selves drew a good deal of encouragement from 
it. 

“You can’t tell, Ward,” Squint Anderson an- 
nounced in the dressing room the next afternoon. 

84 


SCHOOL SPIRIT 


“We might catch Clinton off form or something, and 
pull out ahead anyhow.” 

But Ward wasn’t quite so sure about that. From 
what he knew of the larger school, her teams were 
not in the habit of being off form. Still, there was 
no telling what might happen. 

Bill Barrett and the other players made an at- 
tempt on Friday to arouse interest in the game. 
Bill gave a speech himself at morning assembly, 
urging every student to attend the contest and to 
stand behind the team until the final whistle blew. 
The applause which greeted his speech was flattering 
enough, but Ward wasn’t certain whether it was be- 
cause of the good speech Bill had made or because 
his hearers were really interested. However, he 
was hopeful of a fair crowd on Saturday; DeWitt 
Clinton was the first New York team that had ever 
visited Hillsdale, and that in itself ought to insure 
a large attendance. But Ward wanted more than a 
crowd; he wanted a crowd with enough spirit and 
enthusiasm to cheer and sing from the beginning 
of the game until the end. Nothing else would satisfy 
him. 

“If we can’t beat Clinton,” Ward remarked to 
Squint Anderson on the night before the game, “I’d 
85 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


at least like to show them that we’ve got a good school 
here and a live one.” 

Squint did not answer for a moment; and then, 
suddenly, he looked squarely into Ward’s worried 
eyes. 

“Have we?” he asked bluntly. 

Ward, searching for an answer to the question, was 
forced to admit that he didn’t know whether they had 
or not. 


CHAPTER IX 


THE GAME 


D 


EWITT CLINTON came to Hillsdale con- 


fident of victory. Ward, meeting them 
at the railroad station, knew after one 


look at their clean-cut faces, that nothing short of a 
miracle would save his own team from defeat. But 
there was no hint of discouragement in his attitude 
as he greeted his former schoolmates, answered their 
pleasant badinage, and led the way down Main 
Street to the Y. M. C. A. building. 

“We’re only a small school, of course,” he ex- 
plained to them, “and things aren’t as well organized 
as at Clinton; but we’ve got a good bunch and we 
ought to give you fellows a hard fight.” 

They smiled easily, without comment; joked a bit 
about Ward becoming a regular rube, and inquired 
of him how the crops were getting along, by heck! 
Once in the dressing room, however, their laughter 
ceased, and Ward was conscious of a tightening of 


87 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


the lines about their mouths, of an awakening of 
the old lighting spirit which he himself had once 
known so well. DeWitt Clinton was, as usual, out 
for victory. 

The Hillsdale players, on the far side of the room, 
regarded the visitors with curious eyes, noted their 
heavily-muscled bodies, sensed their attitude of quiet 
determination to win. For the first time, they began 
to realize the kind of thing Ward Jackson had been 
accustomed to; and with that realization came a 
clearer understanding of some of the things Ward 
had told them about school spirit. 

Somehow, the knowledge that they were about to 
face a real team strengthened their own resolve, 
brushed away the indifference which had threatened 
to overcome them since the departure of Ben Powel- 
son. 

“We’ve got to play the game of our lives to-day,” 
Bill Barrett declared. “We simply can’t do any- 
thing else.” 

They waited until the visitors had gone out upon 
the court before they made their own appearance. 
A thunder of cheers greeted them; and Ward, glanc- 
ing up, was surprised to find the balconies crowded 
to the last available foot of space. Not only the 
88 


THE GAME 


school, but a large number of townsfolk themselves 
had come to witness the final game. 

The preliminaries were ended quickly, and at the 
shrill whistle of the referee, Bill Barrett and the 
Clinton captain met in the center of the floor and 
shook hands. Hillsdale won the toss and chose the 
basket at the north end of the court; the men trotted 
to their positions, and the whistle blew again. 

It was a fast game and a hard one, played cleanly 
and without bitterness. The visiting team, well 
trained and carefully coached, gave an exhibition of 
teamwork which had never before been seen on the 
Hillsdale court. Under ordinary circumstances, 
they would have amassed a big lead in the first 
period, would have romped easily to a certain 
victory. 

But something had happened to the Hillsdale 
players; the team was a revelation even to its most 
ardent followers. Outmatched in the science of the 
game, admittedly pitted against men of superior 
skill and knowledge, Hillsdale made up for all its 
shortcomings by the sheer brilliance of individual 
play. Bill Barrett, at center, was a veritable whirl- 
wind, following the ball with uncanny precision, con- 
sistently outjumping his opponent, giving unspar- 
89 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


ingly of his strength and skill for the success of the 
team of which he was captain. Squint Anderson and 
Phil Janeway were playing beyond themselves, in the 
thick of every scrimmage, fighting desperately but 
with even temper, and always, whenever the oppor- 
tunity offered itself, working the ball toward the 
guarded basket of the opposing team. And Ward 
Jackson, to whom the game meant more than to all 
the other players combined, gave an exhibition of 
basketball which caused even his former schoolmates, 
who were well aware of his ability, to gaze at him 
with frank amazement. 

There was, indeed, only one weak point in the 
Hillsdale defense; and that was Carlton at guard. 
Had it not been for the former varsity substitute, 
Hillsdale would undoubtedly have piled up a sub- 
stantial lead during the first period. But Carlton, 
in spite of the fact that he did his best, was unable to 
maintain the pace which his team mates had set for 
themselves. He played grimly, with all the skill at 
his command; but, in spite of his efforts, his opponent 
slipped by him on innumerable occasions and tossed 
the ball through the basket for a precious two points. 
The Clinton players, quick to take advantage of any 
weakness, altered their style of play so as to “feed” 
90 


THE GAME 


the ball to Carlton’s opponent, and, although Phil 
Janeway and Bill Barrett did yeoman service on the 
defense, the handicap was more than their combined 
efforts could overcome, and Clinton continued to 
score. 

It seemed to Ward Jackson as if the period would 
never end. In spite of Carlton’s weakness, the Hills- 
dale players were holding their own, were matching 
the visiting team point for point. But Ward realized, 
even in the heat of combat, that they could not keep 
it up much longer, that already Barrett and one or 
two of the others were calling upon their reserves of 
strength and courage. Only the intermission could 
bring them relief. 

In the last two minutes, Clinton drew ahead, and 
for the first time during the contest more than two 
points separated the teams. Just before the whistle 
blew, *Squint Anderson slipped the ball through the 
basket from the side of the court; but even with that 
added score the half ended with the visiting team 
six points in the lead. 

It was not so much the fact they were behind that 
troubled the Hillsdale team, but rather that they had 
given all that they had in that first period of play 
and had not been able to hold their opponents even. 

91 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


They stretched themselves wearily on the long wooden 
benches in the locker room, easing their aching 
muscles, gathering themselves together for a still 
greater effort in the second half. They did not say 
much, and there was no coach to point out their faults 
to them, to make suggestions for the strengthening 
of their defense. 

Across the hall, Ward could glimpse the Clinton 
players. They too were weary from their efforts, 
surprised at the opposition which had been offered 
them; but even as Ward watched, their coach went 
from man to man, talked quietly to each player, gave 
needed words of encouragement and advice. It oc- 
curred to Ward that, if Hillsdale had been given the 
benefit of real coaching, there would have been a 
different story to tell during the intermission of that 
final game. 

Charlie Carlton, sitting in one corner of the room, 
his head in his hands, looked up finally, and cleared 
his throat. 

“It’s my man who’s making all the goals,” he an- 
nounced miserably. “If we only had a real player 
in place of me, we’d win this game.” 

His words were true enough, but Bill Barrett 
hastened to reassure him. 

92 


THE GAME 


“It’s all right, Charlie,” he said quietly. “No- 
body’s blaming you.” 

Occasionally, from the direction of the gymnasium, 
the sound of cheering came to them; but Ward could 
not help noticing that the cheers were less spontaneous 
than they had been two weeks before, when the team 
had enjoyed its winning streak. For a time he 
listened almost indifferently, and then he was con- 
scious of a sudden change in the monotone of sound 
which drifted through the open door leading to the 
court. 

“Yea!” a deep voice called loudly. “Go to it, 
Stretch!” 

There was a cheer at that; a cheer, accompanied 
by the loud clapping of many hands. 

“We want Stretch Magens!” some one chanted, and 
seemingly the whole balcony took up the refrain. 

Ward shifted his position so that he could see a 
portion of the balcony through the door opening into 
the locker room; and as he watched, he saw Stretch 
Magens climb over the low hanging, gallery and drop 
gracefully to the floor of the gymnasium. The hand 
clapping grew louder; and Stretch, making his way 
toward the dressing room, grinned into the beaming 
faces of his schoolmates and waved his hand reas- 
93 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


suringly. A moment later, he was standing before 
Bill Barrett, captain of the Hillsdale team. 

“Bill,” he said, and there was a touch of arrogance 
in his voice, “the bunch up in the gallery seem to 
want me to get in this game. Got a suit handy?” 

For a moment, the Hillsdale captain did not an- 
swer. He was not too surprised, however, to realize 
two things; the one, that, with Stretch Magens in the 
lineup, Hillsdale could probably win; and the other, 
that the school expected Stretch to play. Already, 
they were clamoring for him, loudly, insistently. 

Bill did not know quite what had happened out 
there in the balcony; but he rather suspected that 
Chuck Connors or some one else had made the sug- 
gestion to Stretch, and that Stretch had taken advan- 
tage of the unusual situation to inject himself into 
the limelight. The Hillsdale students, intent only on 
victory, and caring little how that victory was ob- 
tained, gave no consideration whatever to the fact 
that Stretch Magens had refused to be a candidate for 
the team, had even rejected the captain’s invitation 
to report. All that concerned them in their excited 
state of mind was that Stretch Magens was a good 
enough basketball player to turn probable defeat 
into possible victory. And they wanted the victory, 
94 


THE GAME 


wanted the honor of winning from such a well-known 
school as DeWitt Clinton. 

Bill Barrett knew, as Stretch Magens stood chal- 
lengingly before him, that if he did not give Stretch 
his chance, the school would never quite forgive him. 
Always, the stigma of defeat would rest upon his 
shoulders. But Bill knew too that, according to all 
the rules of the game, Stretch did not deserve his 
chance. 

It was a situation which would have tested the 
courage of a man many years older than Bill Barrett; 
so Bill hesitated, while the members of the squad 
regarded him curiously, and Stretch Magens waited 
impatiently. 

“Well,” Stretch said finally, “where’s the suit?” 

The Hillsdale captain swallowed the lump which 
had risen in his throat, and wished with all the sin- 
cerity of his loyal young heart that Ben Powelson 
hadn’t moved away. 

“Why a suit?” he asked in a voice which quavered 
just a bit. “You’re not a member of the team, are 
you?” 

Magens grinned. 

“No,” he answered, “but I’m offering to be. How 
about it?” 


95 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


There was something in that grin so arrogant, so 
self-assured, that Bill Barrett’s teeth clicked, and his 
eyes lighted dangerously. 

“Stretch,” he announced evenly, “we offered you 
a chance to come out for the team and you turned us 
down. Now, when you think you’ve got us in a hole, 
you come here and want to play for Hillsdale. If 
you were doing it for the school, we might consider 
it, but you’re not; you’re doing it for yourself, so 
that you will be the big hero, the fellow who saved 
the game.” Bill paused, and cleared his throat 
huskily. “And, as far as I’m concerned,” he said, 
“you’re not going to play." 

For a few seconds, the locker room was so quiet 
that Ward Jackson could hear his own heart thumping 
against his ribs. Stretch Magens, his face pale, re- 
garded the team captain with angry eyes. 

“You’re not going to let me play, then?” he asked 
unbelievingly. 

“No.” 

“All right!” Stretch turned. “I’ll tell them out 
there,” he said. 

After he had gone, the rumble of many voices 
drifted through the open door. Bill Barrett stood 
motionless in his place, his hands clenched at his 
96 


THE GAME 

sides, his face tense. Then, suddenly, he sank down 
upon the bench. 

Squint Anderson, taking a single step forward, 
laid a hand grippingly upon his shoulder. 

“Good stuff, Bill!” Squint said gruffly. “That’s 
darned good stuff!” 

The referee, coming into the locker room, nodded 
to the Hillsdale squad. 

“Time’s up,” he announced. “All out!” 

The team filed out upon the court, still dazed at 
the recent turn of events. The crowd greeted them 
coldly, and there was no cheering. 

“Where’s Stretch Magens?” some one called. 

Ward Jackson, standing beside Charlie Carlton, 
turned to the other hoy with glowing eyes. 

“Charlie,” he said huskily, “it’s up to you to 
play better than you know how. Never mind about 
the ball, just hang on to your man, and stick to him 
like glue.” 

Carlton nodded. 

“So help me. Ward,” he promised, “I’ll do it!” 

Even the Hillsdale team itself could not have ex- 
plained what happened during that second period of 
play. DeWitt Clinton was seemingly as strong as 
ever, hut she was suddenly helpless before the whirl- 
97 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


wind attack of the opposing forces. Her carefully 
planned offense was frustrated at every turn; Charlie 
Carlton’s opponent found himself unbelievably un- 
able to break away; and, with his effectiveness gone, 
Clinton’s scoring power was cut in half. Slowly 
but surely, Hillsdale’s total mounted, while the bal- 
cony, at first indifferent, awoke to an enthusiasm 
such as had hardly seemed possible at the beginning 
of the half, and sent cheer after cheer booming across 
the court. 

It was a great exhibition of desperate, uphill play- 
ing; something that Hillsdale could never hope to 
witness again. And it resulted, finally, in the most 
glorious victory that the school had ever known. 
Hillsdale 31, DeWitt Clinton 27. 


CHAPTER X 


THE A. A. MEETING 

O N the following Monday morning, Ward 
met Squint Anderson in the hallway of the 
high school building. 

“Stick around this afternoon,” Squint suggested. 
“There’s going to be a meeting of the Athletic As- 
sociation.” 

“What about?” 

“We’ve got to elect a president in place of Ben 
Powelson. It ought to have been done a week ago.” 
“Who’ll be elected?” 

Squint shook his head. 

“Hard to tell,” he answered. “But probably 
Stretch Magens and his gang will try to run things as 
usual.” 

“Do you think they can get away with it, after 
Saturday’s game?” 

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Squint answered 
thoughtfully. “We won, of course, and the school’s 
99 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


wild about it; but Stretch has been posing as a mar- 
tyr ever since, and you can’t tell what might happen.” 

“We’ll wait and see, then.” 

Ward had no idea of the way in which A. A. 
meetings were conducted at Hillsdale. Since his 
arrival, there had been no meeting of the association, 
had apparently been no need for one. But Ward had 
heard rumors about prearranged agreements to vote 
for certain candidates, and he knew that the faction 
of which Ben Powelson had once been leader held 
the majority of the offices. Stretch Magens, for in- 
stance, was treasurer. 

It seemed to Ward, though, that with Powelson 
gone, Stretch himself would be more or less helpless. 
Nevertheless, he reported at the Chemistry room after 
school with a vague feeling that possibly everything 
was not going to go as smoothly as he might wish. 

Practically all the boys of the school were there. 
Whatever else might be said about Hillsdale, the 
students at least supported their A. A. Art Denman, 
as vice-president, took his place at the teacher’s desk 
and called for order. 

“We’re meeting to-day,” he announced, “in order 
to elect a president to fill the place of Ben Powelson. 
Are there any nominations?” 

100 ’ 


THE A. A. MEETING 


There was a moment of silence, and then Chuck 
Connors stood up. 

“I nominate Stretch Magens,” he said. 

“Second it,” some one called from the back of the 
room., 

“Are there any others?” Denman waited for barely 
five seconds, and then held up his hand. “If 
not . . .” he began. 

But Bill Barrett leaped to his feet. 

“I nominate Ward Jackson,” he declared. 

“Second it,” Squint called. 

Denman frowned. 

“That means that we’ll have to give out ballots,” 
he said. “I’ll appoint Jones and Hankins tellers.” 

“How about closing the nominations?” Phil Jane- 
ways asked. 

Denman nodded. 

“All in favor say 6 aye,’ ” he directed. 

Thus informally, the nominations were closed, and 
the two tellers passed down the aisles distributing 
slips of paper. 

“Write the name of your choice on the ballots,” th6 
chairman directed, “fold it and hand it in. Any re- 
marks?” 

Chuck Connors stood up. 

101 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


“It’s generally customary to say a word about the 
candidates,” he began, “and I’d like to urge the 
fellows to vote for Stretch Magens. We all know 
Stretch; he’s been a leader of the school for two 
years; he’s thef best track man we’ve got, and if he 
hadn’t been given a rotten deal in the basketball game 
Saturday, he would have made the victory over De- 
Witt Clinton even larger that it was. Stretch is the 
man for president of the A. A., and I guess we all 
know it.” 

He sat down amid a scattering of applause. Art 
Denman, smiling, nodded to Chuck. 

“Yes,” he agreed, “I guess we all know it.” 

Ward felt his face growing red. He had never 
run for office before, and he wished that Bill hadn’t 
nominated him. 

“If there are no other remarks,” the chairman 
announced, “we’ll proceed with the voting.” 

But Squint Anderson rose from his seat. 

“I’d like to say a word about the other candidate,” 
he said quietly. “Ward Jackson has only been here 
a little while, but he’s done more for the school in 
that short time than all the rest of us have done for 
years. It was because of him that a losing basket- 
ball team was changed into a winning one; and he’s a 
102 


THE A. A. MEETING 

good clean fellow, too, one that ought to be head of 
the A. A.” 

“Meaning that Stretch isn’t?” Chuck Connors 
asked ominously. 

“I’m not saying anything about Streach,” Squint 
answered steadily. 

Connors stood up again. 

“I shouldn’t think that Anderson would say any- 
thing about Stretch,” he declared. “For it was 
Squint and his crowd that kept him off the basket- 
ball team after he was man enough to offer to play. 
Remember, I’m not charging any one with anything, 
but all of you fellows know that if Stretch had been 
given a chance Saturday, he would have been the big 
hero of the school. And in that case, he could have 
run away with this A. A. election.” 

Art Denman nodded. 

“I think we see the point, Chuck,” he said. “How 
about voting?” 

“Let’s go ahead,” Phil Janeway suggested. 

Ward knew, even before the ballots were collected, 
that he would be defeated. Chuck Connors had 
made Stretch Magens appear as a martyr, a fellow 
who had offered to help the school but whose offer 
had been refused for personal reasons. He had 
103 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


cleverly twisted circumstances to meet his ends, and 
even Squint Anderson had not been able to refute 
him. 

Ward was surprised, though, when the votes were 
announced, to find out how many of the fellows had 
voted for him. Stretch Magens won the election, as 
Ward had expected, hut the final count was 51 to 47, 
and there was no disgrace in such a defeat. When 
the fellows had time to think it over, Ward decided, 
some of them would probably realize that they had 
made a mistake. 

Personally, he did not want to be president of the 
athletic association, but he was sorry that Stretch 
Magens had been given the office. Basketball was 
over, to be sure, but there were other sports; base- 
ball and track, for instance. 

Stretch was escorted to the chair with great cere- 
mony; and after the applause had died down, he 
made a short speech about everybody working to- 
gether for the good of the school. But Ward knew 
that he did not mean what he was saying. 

“Now that I’m president,” Stretch announced, 
“we’ll have to elect a treasurer. How about nomin- 
ations?” 

Ward, not to be denied a second time, leaped to his 
104 


THE A. A. MEETING 


feet and nominated Bill Barrett. An instant later, 
Art Denman was named; and the battle between the 
two opposing factions began again. 

This time, however, there was a different result, 
for Denman had never been especially popular, and 
the argument which had turned the tide in favor of 
Stretch Magens could not be applied to him. When 
the result was announced, showing a decided victory 
for Barrett, Squint Anderson nodded grimly. 

“At least,” he whispered across the aisle to Ward, 
“there won’t be any more squandering of money on 
out-of-town-trips.” 

There did not seem to be any other business to 
transact, but Stretch suggested that it might be a good 
thing for the baseball and track captains to say a word 
about the approaching season. 

“We ought to begin practice next week,” he de- 
clared. “And everybody in school ought to go out 
for one team or the other.” 

Phil Janeway, baseball captain, outlined briefly the 
prospects on the diamond. 

“Mr. Dunham, the math teacher, is still in school 
and is willing to coach us again,” he said. “But we 
need some fellows to play in the outfield, and we 
105 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


want every man who knows anything about baseball 
to come out for the team.” 

“Schedule all arranged?” Stretch asked. 

“Yes.” 

The new A. A., president nodded. 

“How about track?” he asked. 

A senior named Jim Stackhouse, whom Ward 
hardly knew, rose in his place near the front of the 
room. 

“Track prospects are good,” he announced in a 
rather weak voice, as if he were nervous about some- 
thing. “We’ve got most of the team that won the 
county championship last year, but we need a miler 
and a pole vaulter. That’s about all, I guess.” 

“What about a coach?” Bill Barrett demanded. 

Stackhouse stood up again. 

“Last year,” he explained, “we had Alf Kearney, 
and most of us think Alf is a mighty good man. I 
haven’t spoken to him this year yet, but I guess we can 
count on him again, all right. 

Bill Barrett frowned. 

“What’s he going to do, give up his job?” he asked 
curiously. 

“He probably will.” 

“Alf’s all right,” Stretch Magens put in, “and 
106 


THE A. A. MEETING 


we’re mighty lucky to be able to have him.” He 
glanced at his watch. “If there isn’t any other 
business, we’ll adjourn. The motion’s in order.” 

Ward walked home with Bill and Squint. The 
A. A., meeting had seemed to him more or less of a 
farce, but the other two boys did not seem to think 
anything about it, so Ward turned to the subject of 
spring sports. 

“How about you, Squint?” he asked. “Are you a 
baseball man?” 

“No, I couldn’t catch a ball in a bushel basket,” 
Squint answered. “And I can’t run either. So I 
don’t do anything in the spring except root.” 

“How about you, Bill?” 

“I’ve been on the track team for the past two 
years,” Barrett answered. “What about you?” 

Ward was silent for a moment. 

“I’m not any good at baseball,” he said finally, 
“and I haven’t done any track work either. But I’d 
like to go out for something here at Hillsdale beside 
basketball.” 

Bill nodded. 

“Yes,” he agreed, “that’s half the fun of school.” 
They were silent for a few minutes; then Bill spoke 
again. “Conditions in track are almost what they 
107 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


were in basketball before you came,” he explained. 
“Jim Stackhouse is captain, but Stretch Magens and 
Art Denman, who is manager, really run things. 
And they do just about what they want to, too.” 

“What’s Stretch’s event?” 

“The high jump; and he’s a crackerjack at it.” 

“Hasn’t been beaten in two years,” Squint put 
in. 

“He is, of course, the best man on the team,” Bill 
continued, “and he makes Jim Stackhouse do any- 
thing he wants him to do. It’s Stretch, really, who 
got Alf Kearney to coach us.” 

“Who’s Kearney?” Ward asked curiously. 

“He’s a fellow who lives in town.” 

“A good scout?” 

Bill shook his head. 

“No,” he answered quietly, “Alf’s something of a 
mucker. But he was in the army during the war, and 
he learned something about track from some buddy 
of his. But he isn’t a good influence on the team, 
and we’d be almost as well off without him.” 

“Do the fellows like him?” 

“Some of them.” 

They had reached the Barrett home and were stand- 
ing by the front gate. Ward, his hands thrust deeply 
108 


THE A. A. MEETING 


into his pockets, gazed thoughtfully across the street 
to where some small boys were throwing a baseball. 
From what Bill had told him about track, he imagined 
that conditions were pretty bad; and he wondered 
if Bill and some of the other fellows could change 
things for the better, as they had done in basket- 
ball. 

“Stackhouse said something about the team need- 
ing a pole vaulter,” he said, after a moment of inde- 
cision. “Do you think I could learn, Bill?” 

The other boy nodded eagerly. 

“Sure you could,” he answered. “All you have to 
do is go out and practice every day. It doesn’t look 
very hard.” 

“I’ll take a chance, anyhow.” 

“Good!” Bill Barrett nodded happily, then his 
eyes grew suddenly thoughtful. “We’ll be up 
against the same old gang that we were in basketball. 
Ward,” he announced evenly, “and things probably 
won’t be so very pleasant. But maybe, if we work 
together and fight hard enough, we can clean out some 
of the rotten spots. Are you game to try?” 

Ward nodded grimly. 

“You just bet I am,” he answered. 

“Shake, then!” 


109 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


They shook hands, seriously and with a solemnity 
befitting such an occasion. 

Stretch Magens, who happened to be passing on the 
other side of the street, turned, and regarded them 
curiously. 


CHAPTER XI 


THE HIKE 

P RACTICALLY all of the older students in the 
school belonged to the “Hi-Y Club,” which 
met every Friday night in the Y. M. C. A. 
Phil Janeway was president and Squint Anderson 
secretary, and even Stretch Magens and his followers 
attended the meetings. Squint, with his usual blunt- 
ness, maintained that the only reason Stretch had any- 
thing to do with the club was because of the suppers 
which the Ladies Auxiliary of the “Y” served before 
each meeting. 

“What does he care about hearing speakers from 
colleges and people like that?” Squint demanded 
belligerently. “The only thing that dumb-bell is in- 
terested in is Stretch Magens himself.” 

Ward, however, wasn’t quite so sure. He had, of 
course, only lived in Hillsdale for a short time and 
he did not know some of the fellows as well as he 
wanted to. Moreover, Stretch had aways seemed to 
111 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


hold his own interests above those of the school ; and 
yet, there must be some good in him, Ward argued, 
or he wouldn’t be a leader. 

“Perhaps,” he told himself, “if we get under 
Stretch’s skin, we can change him into a really decent 
chap.” 

He resolved to try to get to know the other boy 
better, and on Saturday morning, when the members 
of the “Hi-Y Club” started on a “bicycle hike” to the 
Deserted Village, Ward made it a point to ride for a 
time besides Stretch. 

“Great day for a trip like this,” he said pleasantly. 
“I’ve never been to the Deserted Village before.” 

The other boy looked over at him curiously. 

“Haven’t missed much,” he grumbled. 

There was nothing encouraging about his attitude, 
but Ward tried again. 

“What’s it like?” he asked. 

Stretch snorted. 

“Just a lot of old houses that some people lived in 
and then got tired of,” he explained. “Sort of a 
fool stunt to go up there.” 

Without further word, Stretch peddled away from 
Ward until he drew up besides Chuck Connors. 
Ward looked over at him angrily. 

112 


THE HIKE 

“Maybe,” he said softly, “Squint Anderson was 
right.” 

Somehow, a good deal of his taste for the trip left 
him. When Phil Janeway had proposed it the pre- 
ceding evening, he had been eager to go. The 
plan, as outlined by the president of the club, in- 
cluded a bicycle ride to the Brookfield Y. M. G. A., 
about eight miles from Hillsdale, a swimming meet 
with the Brookfield High School boys in the “Y” pool, 
lunch in the mountains back of the neighboring town, 
and then a visit to the Deserted Village. 

“Great stuff!” Ward had said. “I did a lot of 
swimming before we moved to Hillsdale.” 

Now, however, even the prospect of a dip in the 
big Brookfield pool failed to enthuse him. He rode 
along quietly, slightly behind the others, just a bit 
disgruntled and more than a little discouraged. 
After a while Bill Barrett came back and rode beside 
him. But Bill, as if he sensed his mood, did not say 
anything. It occurred to Ward that Bill was rapidly 
becoming the best chum that he ever had. 

Ward forgot his troubles, however, when finally 
they reached the Association building at Brookfield. 
A group of rival high school boys was there to meet 
them, greeting them pleasantly, and taking them at 
113 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


once to the big swimming pool in the basement. The 
Hillsdale Y. M. C. A. did not have a tank of its own, 
and Ward had missed the semi-weekly plunge to 
which he had grown accustomed in New York. 

“This sure is fine,” he declared enthusiastically. 
“How many events are we going to have in the meet?” 

“Five,” Phil Janeway answered. “The fifty, one 
hundred, and two-twenty yard swims ; the fancy dive, 
and the plunge for distance. How are you at swim- 
ming, Ward? Any good?” 

“Not much.” Ward spoke hesitatingly. “I did 
a lot of it in New York, though.” 

“What event do you want to enter?” 

“The two-twenty is as good a-s any.” 

Stretch Magens, sitting on one of the wooden 
benches in the locker room which had been assigned 
the visitors, glanced up challengingly. 

“That’s the race Vm going in,” he said. 

Phil nodded. 

“All right,” he answered. “We can enter two men 
in each event.” 

Stretch turned away, a cynical smile on his lips; 
and Ward glanced doubtfully at the others. 

“Of course,” he suggested, “I can go in the 
hundred if you’d rather have me.” 

114 


THE HIKE 


But Phil shook his head. 

“No,” he decided, “we’ll keep you in the longer 
distance.” 

“Might as well get beat in one as another,” Chuck 
Connors put in unpleasantly. 

Ward wheeled angrily, thought better of it, and re- 
lapsed into silence. He had no special desire to 
clash with Stretch Magens again; his intention had 
been to make friends with the other boy rather than 
to widen the breach which had sprung up between 
them. It seemed, though, as if he and Stretch could 
not get away from their mutual rivalry. 

He glanced furtively over at the other boy, noted 
the tightening of his lips, the moody light in his eyes. 
He had no way of knowing how good a swimmer 
Stretch was, and, as soon as he had put on his bathing 
trunks, he stepped outside to where Bill Barrett was 
waiting. Bill was rather poor at swimming and had 
not entered the meet. 

“How about Stretch Magens in the water?” Ward 
asked. “Is he any good?” 

“The best swimmer in Hillsdale.” Bill looked up 
curiously. “Why?” 

“We’ve both been entered in the two-twenty yard 
swim.” 


115 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


Bill whistled. 

“You’ll have to go some to beat him,” he said. 

But Ward was not particularly worried about his 
ability to win the race. He had had a good deal of 
experience in indoor swimming; had been- taught the 
six-beat crawl and had mastered the knack of turn- 
ing without loss of speed when he reached the end of 
the tank. Stretch, he knew, had only swum out- 
doors, and would be laboring under a big handicap. 

“I think that possibly I can beat him,” Ward 
announced. “But — but I don’t quite like the idea of 
getting him sore again.” 

Bill nodded understandingly. 

“It’s too bad,” he said, “that there has to be two 
factions in the high school. But I wouldn’t worry, if 
I were you, about Stretch. He’s just naturally a sore- 
head.” 

Nevertheless, Ward did worry about it. The 
two-twenty was the last event on the program, and 
Ward sat on the tiled railing at one side of the pool 
and watched the other two races with critical eyes. 
Brookfield won both of them without much trouble; 
but Chuck Connors got a first place in the fancy dive, 
and a fat Hillsdale freshman surprised everybody, 
himself included, by winning the plunge for dis- 
116 


THE HIKE 


tance. That made the count even, with only the 
longer race remaining. 

Art Denman, sitting beside Ward, nodded con- 
fidently. 

“Stretch will run away with the last event,” he 
declared. “There isn’t anybody in Brookfield who 
can beat him.” 

“What does he do it in?” Ward asked. 

“In just a little over three minutes.” 

Ward knew then that Stretch was not going to win 
the race, for he himself could swim the distance in 
two minutes and fifty seconds without any undue 
exertion. As he took his place at the starting line, 
he wondered vaguely how Stretch would take his 
beating. 

He was off at the crack of the gun, striking the 
water a fraction of a second before the others, and 
heading for the far end of the seventy-five foot tank 
with even, powerful strokes. Stretch, swimming 
strongly but with noticeable awkwardness, splashed 
after him. 

At the first turn, Ward gained a clean five yards, 
and a quick glance to the rear showed him that 
Magens was second, with a comfortable lead over 
Brookfield’s best swimmer. Ward, holding himself 
117 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


in reserve, but putting every ounce of power into each 
flailing stroke, continued steadily to the starting point. 
The race required him to swim eight times the length 
of the pool, with an additional twenty yards after the 
last turn. He resolved to go as easily as possible, 
and to save his strength for a desperate sprint to the 
finish. He knew that Stretch would give everything 
that he had to win. 

He continued steadily, until, at the start of the 
seventh lap, he found himself leading by more than 
thirty feet. Stretch Magens was pounding along be- 
hind him, making a good deal of a splash but wasting 
his strength in a futile effort to follow the pace. As 
Ward passed the other boy on the turn, he glanced for 
an instant into Stretch’s glowing eyes. There was 
surprise in the look which Stretch gave back to him; 
surprise and a sort of dazed unbelief! 

Bill Barrett and Squint Anderson, dancing along 
the side of the pool, yelled encouragingly, eagerly. 

“Show him up!” Squint called in his shrill, 
piercing voice. “Run away from him!” 

But Ward did not take the advice of his tiny class- 
mate. Instead, without really knowing why he did 
it, he slackened his pace, permitted Stretch to creep 
118 


THE HIKE 


closer to him. On the seventh turn, the distance be- 
tween them had been cut in half. 

Ward swam mechanically, his legs working like a 
well-oiled machine, his muscled arms impelling him 
through the water without perceptible effort. He 
knew that if he wanted to, he could sprint for the 
entire remaining distance, could beat the boy be- 
hind him by a clean twenty yards. But if he did 
that, he decided, Stretch would never forgive him ; the 
breach between them would be wider than ever. 
And strangely, although Ward had no love for Stretch 
Magens, he did not want the other boy to be his 
enemy. What the school needed more than anything 
else, he decided, was a unified student body, with all 
factions united, and a school spirit which considered 
the good of Hillsdale of far greater importance than 
individual glory. 

He was vaguely aware of the excited yelling of 
groups of boys alongside of the pool. The sound 
came to him dimly, seemingly from far away, and 
only when he raised his head from the water could he 
distinguish the voices of his friends urging him to a 
last desperate effort. Without knowingly slackening 
his pace, he ploughed along through the clear, green 
water; but his mind was not on the race in which he 
119 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


found himself one of the chief figures; instead he was 
thinking in a dazed sort of way of Hillsdale High 
School and the situation which existed there. It 
occurred to him, when he was twenty feet or so from 
the last turn, that possibly, if he allowed Stretch 
Magens to beat him, the big problem might be solved. 
Stretch, in the enthusiasm of victory, might be 
willing to forget their rivalry, to be a schoolmate in 
the true sense of the word. 

Squint Anderson was still yelling hysterically, 
leaning so far over the edge of the pool that he was in 
danger of losing his balance. There was no doubt 
of the fact that Squint wanted Ward to win, wanted 
him to beat Stretch Magens in the first actual test in 
which the two boys had ever engaged. 

“Go get him, Ward!” Squint called raspingly. 
“You’re almost to the end. Go fast!” 

But in spite of Squint’s urgent words, and acting 
purely on impulse. Ward decided that he would let 
the other boy win. He would give up his own 
triumph for the good of the school, make his big 
sacrifice in an earnest effort to unite the opposing 
factions. Whatever he did, he knew that Hillsdale 
would win the swimming meet, for the Brookfield 
contestants were at least ten yards behind Magens and 
120 


THE HIKE 


apparently without strength to increase their speed. 

On the final turn, Ward was still six yards ahead. 
He dove beneath the water, whirled about quickly 
and pushed off skillfully. Twenty yards ahead of 
him a rope stretched across the pool, indicating the 
finish line. 

Ward turned on his side and found himself look- 
ing fairly into the eyes of Stretch Magens. On the 
other boy’s face was a look of infinite relief, and, as 
their glances met, his lips parted and he sneered 
openly. There was something about that sneer which 
swept away all of Ward’s good resolutions. His 
own lips tightened, his eyes glowed angrily. He de- 
cided grimly that if Stretch Magens should win the 
race, Chuck Connors and the others would make a 
great fuss about the victory, would “rub it in” as 
only they knew how to do. Instead of uniting the 
factions, he would, in all probability, only make 
matters worse. 

Ward straightened his body in the water, 
lengthened his stroke, and struck out with all the 
power of his muscled arms for the finish line. Be- 
side him, his face glowing with excitement, ran 
Squint Anderson, calling out words which Ward 
could not hear. But he did not care what Squint 
121 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


was saying, did not care for anything except the 
grim satisfaction which beating Stretch Magens 
would bring him. Swimming strongly, he left the 
other boy far behind, swept over the finish line, the 
winner by a clean ten yards. 

Climbing easily over the edge of the pool, he 
seated himself on the tiled floor, waiting grimly for 
Stretch Magens to finish. The memory of the other 
boy’s sneer still vividly before him, he fully expected 
Stretch to brush by him angrily, to make no attempt to 
hide his chagrin at the unexpected defeat. 

But Stretch, his face seamed with weariness, lifted 
himself heavily out of the water, stood for a moment 
looking down upon his victor. Impulsively, Ward 
jumped to his feet and faced the other boy. If there 
was going to be a clash, he wanted to meet it standing 
up. 

For perhaps ten seconds, Stretch Magens did not 
say a word. There was a look of mingled chagrin 
and anger in his eyes, and a hint of something else 
which Ward had never seen before. It was a sort of 
vague wonder, of dazed surprise. 

Then, unexpectedly, Stretch held out his hand. 

“Good work.” he panted huskily. “And — and 
congratulations!” 


122 


THE HIKE 


Their grips met for an instant, but before Ward 
could do more than mumble a conventional answer, 
Stretch withdrew his hand, turned, and hurried into 
the dressing room. Ward gazed after him wonder- 
ingly. 

“What do you know about that!” he said. 


CHAPTER XII 


THE FIRST TRACK PRACTICE 

A DOZEN or so boys were gathered around 
the bulletin board in the corridor of the 
high school building. In one corner of 
the board, slightly apart from the other notices, a 
new announcement had been posted, which, in neatly 
typewritten letters, proclaimed that the first track 
practice of the season would be held at Hillsdale Oval 
at four o’clock that afternoon, and that all candi- 
dates for the team should report to Captain Jim Stack- 
house. The notice was signed by Art Denman, 
manager. 

For a moment or two the boys regarded it silently. 
Then one of them spoke. 

“I wonder if we’ll win the county championship 
again this year,” he said. 

“Of course we will,” another of the onlookers 
answered instantly. “We’ve got Stretch Magens yet, 
haven’t we?” 


124 


THE FIRST TRACK PRACTICE 


The first boy nodded. 

“Yes,” answered, “but Stretch isn’t the whole team, 
you know.” 

“Maybe he isn’t but he won ten points last year in 
the championships and there isn’t another man any- 
where can beat him.” 

The others nodded in agreement. 

“And besides,” one of them remarked, “we’ve got 
some other men from last year, too. There’s Jim 
Stackhouse in the sprints and Bill Barrett in the two 
mile. And there’s no telling what some of the new 
men will do.” 

“Ward Jackson’s out for the pole vault,” some one 
added. 

“Yes, but Stretch says he’s rotten at it.” 

Ward, standing unnoticed on the outer rim of the 
circle, felt his face growing red; and for a moment 
his eyes flashed angrily. It was no fault of his own, 
he argued, that he had not as yet done anything 
worthy of note in the pole vault. Hardly two weeks 
had passed since he had announced his decision to try 
for the track team, and even with expert advice he 
could not have been expected to make any great prog- 
ress. Without any coach whatever, he had so far 
made a miserable failure of his candidacy, and had 
125 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 

been unable to clear the height of more than seven 
feet. There had, of course, been no regular practice 
of the track team, and all of Ward’s attempts had been 
made in the yard of his home with one of the poles 
which belonged to the school and which Art Denman 
had grudgingly permitted him to use. Ward had 
tried to secure a book on pole vaulting, but the only 
store in Hillsdale which sold such things had never 
even heard of one, and Ward was compelled to work 
out his own plan with whatever advice Bill Barrett 
was able to give him. But Bill himself did not know 
anything about the event and the other fellows in the 
school were equally ignorant. 

If it had not been for his promise to Bill, Ward 
might have given up even before the season started, 
but he knew that his best friend wanted him to try 
for the track team; and he knew, too, that, although he 
might not be able to win any points for Hillsdale, he 
could at least do his part to strengthen the spirit of 
the school and to keep the men in training. 

He was not at all pleased, though, over the conver- 
sation he had heard in the corridor of the building, 
for it showed him that the school at large was not 
taking his candidacy seriously, and that Stretch 
Magens had no intention of making his path an easy 
126 


THE FIRST TRACK PRACTICE 


one. Since the basketball season had ended, in fact, 
Stretch had been more arrogant than ever ; his success 
in the Athletic Association election had restored all 
his former self-confidence, and there was no doubt of 
the fact that he intended to direct the activities of the 
track team as he saw fit. And, from what Ward had 
been able to learn, Stretch would have things pretty 
much his own way, for he was one of the best jumpers 
in that section of the State and the acknowledged star 
of the Hillsdale team. 

In English class during the first period in the after- 
noon, Ward tried to center his thoughts upon the work 
at hand; but in spite of his efforts, he found himself 
thinking of the announcement on the bulletin board 
and the remark he had heard about Magens’ opinion 
of himself. He was, too, just a bit bothered over the 
principal’s failure to secure a coach for the track 
team. With an older man to lead them, Stretch’s in- 
fluence would be weakened and Stretch himself would 
be relegated to an inferior position. It had seemed 
to Ward as if Mr. Marsh had been sincere in his de- 
sire to improve conditions, and the older man’s ap- 
parent indifference to the welfare of the school was 
something which Ward could not quite understand. 
For a capable coach would solve the whole problem, 
127 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


would be a fine thing for Hillsdale and for the team 
itself. The more Ward pondered over it, the more 
bitter he grew. It wasn’t right, he decided, and 
something ought to be done about it. 

“I wish we had a coach,” he said huskily, forget- 
ting for the moment where he was. 

Suddenly he was conscious of a deep silence in the 
room; and he glanced up hastily, to find the eyes of 
the English instructor fixed questioningly upon him. 

“Were you speaking to me, Jackson?” the teacher 
asked. 

Ward, coming to himself with a start, felt a wave 
of crimson creep over his face and spread to the 
roots of his hair. 

“No, sir,” he answered embarrassedly. “I — I was 
just thinking.” 

“About English, of course.” The class chuckled. 

“No, sir,” Ward answered. He knew that he 
ought to have said something else, but no fitting 
reply had occurred to him except the exact truth. 
That was Ward’s way; he said what he thought, and 
his habit of thinking was honest. 

He rather expected that he would be asked to 
remain after school for an hour or so; but instead, 
the teacher simply turned away and went on with 
128 


THE FIRST TRACK PRACTICE 


the lesson. Ward listened intently, a surge of grati- 
tude welling up within him. There were a lot of 
good things about Hillsdale, he decided; and if once 
the athletic situation could be cleared up, everything 
would go along smoothly. He resolved, before the 
afternoon was ended, that he would speak to Bill 
Barrett about it, and if Bill thought it wise, would 
again take the matter up with the principal. 

As soon as school was over for the day, therefore, 
he hunted up Bill and explained his idea to the other 
boy. 

“Perhaps it won’t do any good to speak to Mr. 
Marsh again,” he said, “but anyway it won’t hurt us 
any. How about it?” 

For a moment the basketball captain hesitated. 

“Mr. Marsh isn’t so very interested in athletics, 
of course,” he answered, “but I do think he has the 
interest of the school at heart, and that if we put it up 
to him strongly enough he might do something. We 
can try, anyhow.” 

They found the principal in his office, deep in a 
pile of papers which lay on his desk; but he greeted 
them pleasantly enough, and after Ward had ex- 
plained the purpose of their visit, he nodded in ap- 
parent agreement. 


129 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


“Eventually,” he said, “it is my plan to have a 
regularly appointed coach for every branch of sport. 
But the Board of Education has not very much 
money, and until a special appropriation can be 
made, the only thing we can do is to appoint our own 
teachers as coaches.” 

Ward’s heart sank at that; there were only two 
men teachers at Hillsdale, and one of them was al- 
ready coach of the baseball team. The other man, 
Ward knew, was absolutely indifferent to athletics of 
every kind, and would not consent to take -charge of 
the team even if he were capable of doing it. 

“I guess we can’t count very much on help for this 
year, then,” he announced. “But I surely do wish 
we had a coach for the track team.” 

The principal nodded. 

“Yes,” he agreed, “it would be a good thing.” 
For a moment he looked thoughtfully out of the 
window, as if debating something with himself. 
Then the shadow of a smile, played about his lips. 
“Perhaps,” he said, “in another day or so I may 
have some good news for you.” 

He did not offer any further explanation, however, 
and the two boys were unable to decide just how to 
take his announcement. 


130 


THE FIRST TRACK PRACTICE 


“Maybe he has something up his sleeve that he 
doesn’t want us to know quite yet,” Bill declared. 
“At any rate, the only thing we can do is to wait 
and see.” 

They walked home together, but as Bill lived on 
the other side of town, Ward did not wait for him, 
hut went up to the athletic field alone. Jim Stack- 
house was the only one who had preceded him, so 
they sat down on the bench together and waited for 
the others to arrive. 

“How about a coach this year?” Ward asked. 
“Done anything about it?” 

“I’ve talked to Alf Kearney,” the team captain 
answered. “And he’s going to come up whenever he 
can. 

Ward turned away disappointedly. From the 
things he had heard, he did not like Alf Kearney, 
and he rather hoped that the older man would be un ; 
able to give any time to the team. For Alf was not 
the kind of person to be associated with high school 
boys. He had never even graduated from grammar 
school, and he worked only when he was forced to. 
He was a member of the Hillsdale Athletic Club, 
which maintained the field and kept the cinder track 
in shape; and when the Club held its big open meet 
131 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 

on the Fourth of July, Alf ran in the quarter mile 
dash, and usually won it. There was no denying the 
fact that he knew how to run, but he was wholly 
ignorant of the jumps and pole vault, and Bill had 
said that he never gave any attention to these events. 
Still, he had taught Jim Stackhouse all he knew about 
sprinting, and Jim would naturally want him to help 
coach the team. But Ward was disappointed, never- 
theless. 

After a time, when other candidates strolled across 
the field, Ward walked over to the pit which had been 
made for pole vaulting. The ground, though, had 
not been touched since the preceding fall, so Ward 
went down to the tool house at one end of the en- 
closure and found a spade. Then, while his school- 
mates watched him indifferently, he spaded the 
ground, breaking the heavy clods into smaller pieces, 
leveling them off, putting the pit into condition for 
practice. 

He knew that it was not his job, that Art Denman 
ought to do it; but he did not mind the work espe- 
cially, and he realized that it would do no good to 
ask Art to help him. So he continued at his task 
until it was finished; and then, breathing rather 
132 * 


THE FIRST TRACK PRACTICE 


heavily, he leaned against the shovel and regarded the 
group of candidates with critical eyes. 

Stretch Magens was there; almost a head taller than 
the others, with long, slender legs, and muscles that 
rippled smoothly beneath taut skin. He seemed very 
much pleased with himself, and talked and laughed 
happily; and the rest of the candidates listened re- 
spectfully to everything that he said, as if he were the 
captain, rather than Jim Stackhouse. Ward, watch- 
ing him, frowned doubtfully. There was no doubt 
of Stretch’s influence on the track squad. 

There were other members of the team present; 
Jim Stackhouse, star sprinter, who did the hundred 
yards in ten and four-fifth seconds; Bill Barrett, two 
miler, who could always be counted upon to do his 
part toward any victory; Mel Chalmers, the shot 
putter, whom Ward did not know very well; and a 
fellow named Foulds, in the hurdles. The other 
boys were green material mostly. 

Still, Ward decided, the season promised to be a 
successful one. The team had won the county cham- 
pionship the year before, and only one member had 
been lost by graduation. There was no telling what 
the new men candidates might do. There might be 
another Stretch Magens among them. 

133 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


Shortly after four o’clock, Art Denman, the 
manager, called the squad together and announced 
his plans. 

“We’ve got two dual meets and the county cham- 
pionships this year,” he said. “On May 16 we go 
up against Winston on this field, and on the 23d w* 
travel to Millville. Then, on Decoration Day, the 
county meet is held here. That’s the schedule, and 
we expect to win all three of them. But we can’t do 
it unless you fellows work hard and keep in training.” 

“•How about a coach?” Bill Barrett asked. 

“Alf Kearney’s coming up to help us when he can. 
And you fellows take it from me, Alf’s a good man.” 

There was no comment at that, although Mel Chal- 
mers looked dubious. 

“Probably Alf won’t be up this afternoon,” the 
manager continued, “so you fellows had better just 
work out a bit and go home. Most of you know what 
to do easy enough.” 

It occurred to Ward that there ought to be some 
definite system of training to follow, some one to tell 
the new men how to go about it. But Jim Stack- 
house simply nodded in agreement and began to jog 
up and down the track. 

“I’m going to trot around a little,” he announced to 
134 


THE FIRST TRACK PRACTICE 


the others, “and you can follow me if you want to.” 

As there did not seem to be anything else to do, 
the majority of the candidates jogged after the team 
captain. Ward watched them curiously as they 
circled the quarter mile track; there were tall boys 
and thin boys; boys who strode awkwardly and some 
who ran gracefully. But there was no one to tell 
them how to run, no one to correct their faults. It 
was each man for himself ; and it would continue that 
way all through the season. For Ward knew that 
Alf Kearney would give his attention only to those 
runners who had already made good, as it was 
rumored that Alf had frequently announced that he 
had no use for a “dub.” 

When the track men had finally completed their 
circuit. Ward walked over to where Art Denman was 
standing. 

“How about a pole?” he asked. 

For a moment, the team manager regarded him 
smilingly. 

“Where’s the one I gave you?” he demanded. 

“It’s home.” 

“Better bring it up to-morrow then. But if you 
want to practice now, you can probably find another 
one in buck of the tool house.” 

135 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


Ward did not bother to reply. Even though he 
knew that it was not exactly his job to get a pole, he 
got one, nevertheless*. If he waited until the manager 
brought it to him, he would never learn how to pole 
vault, he told himself. And Ward was as deter- 
mined as ever to learn. 

After a few vain attempts to clear the crossbar at 
seven feet, however, he shook his head in mingled 
anger and hopelessness. Stretch Magens, regarding 
his efforts, grinned openly. 

“Maybe by the time you’re fifty years old, you’ll 
be able to make a go a,s high as your head, Jackson,” 
he said. 

Stretch always called him by his last name; and 
Ward did not like it. 

But he did not answer; instead, he gripped the pole 
more tightly, and tried again. 

“I wish we had a coach,” he muttered grimly. 


CHAPTER XIII 


THE NEW COACH 

F OR a week or more there had been rumors 
around the school that Mr. Waller, the 
English teacher, had resigned his position 
in order to go into business ; but when, on the second 
morning following the first track practice, the school 
principal marched up to the platform of the audi- 
torium with a stranger following him, the school was 
entirely unprepared for the statement that the new 
man was going to take over Mr. Waller’s classes in 
junior and senior English. 

“I am very glad to introduce to the students of 
Hillsdale High School, Mr. Frank Merritt, who comes 
here in a double capacity,” the principal announced. 
“Mr. Merritt will, in addition to his English duties, 
be coach of our football and track teams. His record 
as a college athlete is a splendid one, and I am sure 
that we all shall welcome him as a new factor in 
school development.” 


137 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


Ward Jackson, glancing across the room, caught 
the eye of 'Bill Barrett, and smiled happily. Mr. 
Marsh, in spite of his seeming indifference, had been 
trying to find a track coach all the time. Ward, re- 
garding the new teacher critically, decided almost at 
once that Mr. Merritt was a real man. He sat quietly 
in his chair while the principal made his announce- 
ment, and at the burst of handclapping which followed 
he inclined his head slightly and smiled one of the 
pleasantest smiles Ward had ever seen. There was 
something about him that inspired confidence, that 
gave Ward the feeling that here was a man who could 
be depended upon to do the right thing at all times. 

After the students had filed out to classes. Ward 
found himself speculating upon the influence which 
the new coach would have on the track team. Hills- 
dale had, of course, never had a real coach before 
and Ward could not help wondering what the fellows 
were thinking about it, especially boys like Stretch 
Magens and Art Denman. For, in spite of the fact 
that Jim Stackhouse was captain of track, it was 
Magens who was the real leader, and Ward sus- 
pected that the star jumper would be inclined to re- 
sent any interference with his authority. 

But Ward did not care especially what Stretch 
138 


THE NEW COACH 


might do; Mr. Merritt seemed fully able to take care 
of himself and to handle any situation that might 
arise. His coming to Hillsdale was the best thing 
that could possibly have happened, Ward decided. 

He nodded with satisfaction when he noted on the 
bulletin board during noon recess an announcement 
that candidates for the track team were requested to 
meet with the coach in the auditorium at three 
o’clock that afternoon. Evidently, Mr. Merritt had 
decided to begin right, to meet the men and have a 
talk with them before any active work was begun. 
It was with a good deal of curiosity, therefore, that 
Ward reported at the auditorium as soon as school 
was dismissed. The candidates were all present, 
from Jim Stackhouse to the smallest freshman; and 
Ward noticed that Magens and Art Denman were 
sitting together, their faces impassive, their attitude 
one of watchful waiting. When finally Mr. Merritt 
stood before them and held up his hand for silence. 
Stretch grinned; but it was not exactly a pleasant 
grin, and it gave Ward the feeling, somehow, that his 
classmate was not going to make things especially 
easy for the coach. 

But Mr. Merritt apparently had no suspicion of 
any impending trouble. For a moment, he regarded 
139 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


the group speculatively, and Ward saw that his eyes 
were blue and that they looked squarely at each can- 
didate, confidently, assuredly. 

“Men,” he said finally, “I have never been to Hills- 
dale before, and I do not know anything about the 
school. But this much I do know; that school spirit 
is a splendid thing, and that if each one of you fellows 
gives his best to Hillsdale, unstintedly and with loyal 
devotion, our track season will be a success.” 

He paused for a moment, and the boys regarded 
him almost wonderingly. It occurred to Ward that 
this was probably the first time that any one had ever 
spoken to them in terms of the school rather than of 
the team itself. In the basketball season, for in- 
stance, it had been the team that had counted, and the 
the school itself had mattered only incidentally. 
But here was a man who spoke of the school as a big 
thing, who made no mention at all of individual 
glory. Ward felt his heart beating more quickly, 
and a sudden affection for Hillsdale surged within 
him. It was the first time that he had considered his 
candidacy from the broader viewpoint, and he 
realized suddenly that his own personal desire to win 
his letter in track really amounted to very little. The 
thing that mattered was for him to go out upon the 
140 


THE NEW COACH 


field and give all that he had to the school. It was 
the school that counted and not himself. 

“I am not going to say anything more to-day,” the 
coach continued, “but all of us will report to the field 
at four o’clock, and I can then look you over and de- 
cide what positions you are fitted for. That is all for 
this time.” 

They filed out of the auditorium and shuffled down 
to the basement of the building to dress for practice, 
a custom they had decided to follow so as to save 
time. Ward noticed that the coach did not come 
down with them, and he was glad of it, for it would 
give them an opportunity to talk about him, to pass 
judgment upon him. But he was confident that the 
team would be glad that at last they had a coach who 
was connected with the school and who evidently 
knew how to train men for track work. 

He wanted to say something about it himself, to tell 
the fellows what a fine thing the new arrangement 
would be for Hillsdale; but Stretch Magens was be- 
fore him. 

“ ‘Blondie’ up there seems to think he knows quite 
a lot,” Stretch remarked, “and it seems to me it’s up 
to us to show him a thing or two.” 

There was nothing in what Stretch said which could 
141 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


be construed as unfriendly to the new coach, but 
Ward knew as soon as the other boy had spoken that 
Stretch was not pleased at the appointment. He did 
not like, either, the nickname which Magens had 
given Mr. Merritt. 

Two or three of the other boys smiled broadly, but 
Bill Barrett looked up questioningly. 

“It seems to me he’s a pretty decent sort of chap,” 
be announced. “It’s a good thing, too, that he’s here; 
we’ve needed a real coach for a long time.” 

No one spoke for a moment, and then Art Denman, 
who had come downstairs with the team, turned to 
Jim Stackhouse. 

“How about Alf Kearney?” he asked. “Is Alf 
going to help us out, too?” 

The team captain hesitated, and before he could 
answer Stretch looked up challengingly. 

“You just bet he is,” he answered. “Alf has 
probably forgotten more about track than Blondie 
ever knew.” 

Ward found himself suddenly angry, and a slow 
wave of crimson suffused his face. 

“I don’t see why you call Mr. Merritt ‘Blondie,’ 
anyhow,” he said evenly, “but it seems to me that it’s 
up to him whether we keep Alf or not. He’s the 
142 


THE NEW COACH 


school coach now; and if he wants anybody to help 
him, he’ll let us know.” 

One or two of the others nodded in agreement. 
But Stretch only smiled. 

“It seems to me, Jackson,” he answered evenly, 
“that it’s up to the team captain and manager to de- 
cide about that. They’re running the team, you 
know, and not you.” 

But Ward shook his head. 

“They were,” he answered instantly, “but things 
have changed now. We’ve never had a coach be- 
fore.” 

Two or three of the candidates stirred restlessly, 
and Ward and Stretch regarded each other with flash- 
ing eyes. But Captain Jim Stackhouse hastened to 
throw oil on troubled waters. 

“No use of fighting about it now,” he said 
placatingly. “We’d better wait to see what Blondie 
is going to do.” 

Ward relapsed into silence, realizing the futility of 
further words. But he knew that things had started 
off badly and that the new coach’s path was not going 
to be an especially smooth one. Some of the men, at 
least, had failed to be impressed by what he had said 
about school spirit, had utterly lost the significance 
143 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


of the new order of things. They were still thinking 
about themselves, were still considering the team 
from individual viewpoints. Hillsdale meant noth- 
ing to them at all. 

When finally they were ready, they walked out to 
the Oval in groups of twos and threes; and Ward 
noted that Magens was talking eagerly to Denman and 
Stackhouse, as if he had a good deal to say and 
wanted to say it before they reached the field. But, 
when finally they reported at the track, they greeted 
the coach pleasantly enough and waited curiously to 
hear his directions. 

He did not seem in any special hurry to start 
things, however; instead, he seated himself on the 
green turf and gathered the men around him. 

“Let’s get acquainted a bit, fellows,” he suggested. 
“The first thing I want to know is who you are and 
what you did last year.” 

He talked, then, with each man individually, ask- 
ing definite questions which had to be answered 
directly; and, when he had finished, he nodded to 
them and rose to his feet. 

“As far as I can see,” he announced, “we’ve got 
the makings of a pretty good team. Five of you were 
point winners in the county championships last year, 
144 


THE NEW COACH 

and if we can find another man who is able to count 
even a second or third we have a good chance to re- 
peat. And it seems to be up to me to discover or 
develop that man.” 

Captain Jim Stackhouse nodded. 

“Yes,” he answered, “if you can do that, we’ll 
win.” 

Ward was more and more impressed with the ap- 
parent ability of the new coach. He went about 
things in a businesslike way, as if he knew just what 
he was doing; and Ward was confident, somehow, that 
Mr. Merritt was not going to fail in his task. He 
resolved that he at least would do his part, would 
help the new coach to develop the best team that 
Hillsdale ever had. 

Then finally, after he had spent almost an hour 
with the runners, Mr. Merritt turned his attention to 
the field events. 

“Jackson,” he said, after he had watched Ward 
clear the cross bar at slightly over seven feet, “who is 
the man who taught you how to pole vault?” 

Ward grinned. 

“The man who taught me is standing before you 
this minute,” he answered. “The only teaching I 
ever had was what I gave myself.” 

145 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


The new coach smiled back at him. 

“He’s a good man, all right,” he declared 
pleasantly, “but I don’t think that he knows much 
about pole vaulting.” 

“I know he doesn’t,” Ward answered instantly. 
“But he’s been doing the best that he can.” 

Mr. Merritt nodded. 

“No man can do better than that,” he said. “Let 
me show you.” He proceeded then to initiate Ward 
into the mysteries of pole vaulting. “You want to 
hold your hands almost at the end of the pole,” he 
directed, “and as soon as your spike touches the 
ground, you must jump in the air as high as you can 
and lift yourself over the pole with your arms. You 
will never be able to clear any height until you get 
that lift. Now let me see you try it.” 

Ward tried it, but the idea was such a new one 
that he made a miserable failure of it, and, after he 
had on three successive occasions knocked the bar 
from its supports, he looked up apologetically. 

“I don’t quite get it yet,” he announced. “But 
I’ll keep on trying if you say so.” 

The coach grinned understandingly. 

“That’s the only way to do anything, Jackson,” he 
146 


THE NEW COACH 


said. 64 Just keep on plugging every minute that 
you’re here on the field.” 

46 Yes, sir!” The boy hesitated a moment, and then 
his lips shut grimly. 44 You just watch me,” he 
said. 

The coach smiled encouragingly, and walked over 
to the jumping pit where Stretch Magens was work- 
ing. For perhaps five minutes, he watched without 
comment, and then, when Stretch was about to jump 
again, he held up his hand. 

44 Magens,” he said, “you show promise of develop- 
ing into a fine jumper, but if you ever really want to 
get anywhere you will have to change your form.” 

The star member of the Hillsdale track team looked 
up questioningly. Then his eyes flashed. 

44 I haven’t been beaten in the high jump in two 
years,” he announced importantly, “and I’ve always 
used the same form that I have now.” 

The coach nodded. 

“Yes,” he answered, “but how high have you 
gone?” 

“I’ve done five feet, nine inches almost every 
time.” 

Again the coach nodded. 

“And as long as you stick to your present form,” he 
147 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


said quietly, “you’ll never go an inch higher if you 
jump all your life. You’ve reached your limit.” 

For a moment Stretch Magens did not answer, but 
stood looking at the older man resentfully. 

“I’ve jumped too long to try to change anything 
now,” he said finally, and there was a hint of anger 
in his voice. “My way of jumping suits me and it 
suits the school, and I don’t think that I can ever do 
anything different.” 

Three or four of the boys, who had walked over to 
the jumping pit, regarded the coach questioningly. 
It looked for a moment as if there was going to be an 
open rupture, and they were curious as to how the 
new director would meet it. But again Captain Jim 
Stackhouse stepped into the breach. 

“It was because of Stretch that we won the county 
meet last year, Mr. Merritt,” he explained. “Stretch 
is the best man that we’ve got on the team.” 

The coach’s lips shut grimly. 

“Yes,” he answered, “but he’s going to be even a 
better man when he learns how to take his coaching.” 

Without another word, he turned and walked across 
the field to where Mel Chalmers was tossing the 
twelve-pound shot. 


148 


THE NEW COACH 


Stretch Magens looked over at Art Denman and 
grinned. Ward Jackson, frowning, went back to his 
pole vaulting. He could not help wondering how 
things were going to come out. 


CHAPTER XIV 


THE FIREMAN’S CARNIVAL 

O N Saturday night, Bill Barrett and Squint 
| Anderson whistled piercingly in front of 
Ward Jackson’s house. 

“Squint,” Bill announced, when Ward had joined 
them on the porch, “wants to walk downtown to the 
Firemen’s Carnival. Like to come along?” 

Ward nodded; on school nights, except on special 
occasions, his dad insisted that he stay at home and 
do his lessons, but on Fridays and Saturdays he was 
free to do what he wanted to. 

“What is the Carnival anyhow?” he asked. 

“Just the usual thing; a fellow who dives into a 
tank from a high platform, all kinds of Wild West 
shows and stuff like that,” Bill explained. “It’s been 
here all week, and almost everybody in town goes to 
it at least once.” 

“Need any money?” 

“Not much.” 


150 


THE FIREMAN’S CARNIVAL 


‘Tm sort of broke,” Ward confessed. ‘‘Spent my 
allowance for a new sweater, and Dad won’t let me 
draw any more.” 

“All we’ll do,” Squint said, “is look around. It’s 
sort of a roughneck affair, you know, and we wouldn’t 
want to go in a lot of the shows.” 

“If a half dollar will see me through,” Ward de- 
cided, “I’m game. Have to get back about ten 
o’clock, though.” 

“We’ll do that, easy enough.” 

The Carnival was held in a big meadow at the 
lower end of town. Two or three blocks before they 
reached the spot, they came across long lines of peo- 
ple walking slowly in that direction. Ward had 
never been to a firemen’s carnival before, and he 
watched the growing crowd with eager interest. 

“Reminds me of stories I’ve read about a small 
town circus,” he said. “Let’s hurry up I” 

At the entrance to the grounds they pushed their 
way through a shifting mass of onlookers. The va- 
rious shows and booths were arranged in a massive 
circle, in the center of which was a small tank sur- 
mounted by a towering platform. 

“Do you mean to say that a man dives from up 
there?” Ward asked unbelievingly. 

151 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


Squint Anderson nodded. 

“He does it every night,” he explained, “only he 
waits until almost twelve o’clock, and I’ve never seen 
him. Stretch Magens and some of the other fellows 
have, though, and they’ve told me about it. It’s real 
stuff all right.” 

“Maybe he’ll do his stunt earlier to-night,” Bill 
suggested. 

But Squint shook his head. 

“Don’t you believe it,” he declared cynically. 
“He holds off as long as he can so that people will 
stick around and buy things. That’s part of the 
game.” 

“It sure would be fine to see him,” Ward an- 
nounced. “But it’s no go, I guess.” 

They wandered curiously from booth to booth, 
eager-eyed and with smiling faces. The Carnival 
was in full swing, the crowd good-natured and intent 
on enjoyment, and the “barkers” for the various at- 
tractions fairly outdid themselves. To Ward, it was 
even better than a circus. 

There were “hot dog” stands, and counters heaped 
with pop corn and peanuts. There was a big revolv- 
ing wheel where people took chances on a quart of ice 
cream; another wheel which offered a “splash me” 
152 


THE FIREMAN’S CARNIVAL 


doll to the winner of each turn ; and still another, with 
a pound of chocolates as a reward. 

“That’s gambling,” Bill Barrett announced grimly, 
“and a lot of people in town are kicking about it.” 

“Why don’t they stop it?” Ward asked. 

“The Mayor’s afraid to do it,” Bill explained, “be- 
cause he doesn’t want to get the firemen down on 
him.” 

Ward shook his head helplessly. Small town pol- 
itics, he knew, were beyond his ken; but according to 
the way he looked at things, gambling was gambling, 
whether sanctioned by local firemen or any one 
else. 

“The other night,” Squint Anderson declared, 
“Chuck Connors won three boxes of candy and two 
dolls.” 

“That’s just about what you’d expect of Chuck,” 
Bill answered shortly. 

They stopped for a long while before one of the 
canvas booths. In front was a counter filled with 
cheap baseballs, and about thirty yards away was a 
heavy curtain, in the center of which was a round 
opening. Through the opening bobbed the bare head 
of a smiling colored man. Over the booth in flaming 
letters, was the announcement: 

153 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


“HIT THE NIGGER IN THE EYE AND GET A 
GOOD CIGAR.” 

The boys watched curiously and with varied emo- 
tions, as man after man picked up the worn baseballs 
and hurled them at the grinning negro. The bobbing 
head had a way of escaping even the most carefully 
aimed balls, and for a long time not a person touched 
him. And then, a group of young men, noisy and 
boisterous, arrived upon the scene. 

“You’ll see something now,” Squint Anderson 
whispered. “That’s the Hillsdale Athletic Club 
bunch.” 

One of the members, who was apparently the 
leader, stepped out from the group and dropped a 
coin on the counter. 

“I’ll take six balls, Captain,” he announced loudly, 
“and you’d better say good-by to your nigger right 
now.” 

Bill Barrett touched Ward excitedly on the shoul- 
der. 

“That’s Alf Kearney,” he said. 

Nodding, Ward regarded the older man curiously. 
As far as he could see, Kearney was a typical town 
loafer. He wore a tweed cap drawn tightly over his 
154 


THE FIREMAN’S CARNIVAL 


forehead, a suit that needed pressing, and a flannel 
shirt. He was fairly large, weighing about a hun- 
dred and sixty pounds; his jaw protruded aggres- 
sively, and there was an air of arrogant self-confidence 
about him. Ward decided instantly that he did not 
like Alf Kearney. Still, he reflected, there must be 
something good in Alf, or so many of the high school 
fellows would not have stood by him. 

The former track coach picked up a baseball, drew 
back his arm and grinned. 

“Hey, Rastus,” he called, “you’d better say good- 
by to yourself!” 

The others laughed loudly, and the ball shot for- 
ward with amazing speed. Either by accident or be- 
cause Kearney was an accurate thrower, it struck the 
colored man fairly on the top of the head. The ne- 
gro rubbed the spot ruefully, and the crowd roared 
its approval. 

But Ward turned away in sudden disgust, and his 
two companions followed him. 

“None of that stuff for me,” Squint announced. 
“That isn’t fun, it’s cruelty.” 

They passed on to the Wild West Show, debated 
for a few minutes the advisability of going in, and 
decided finally against it. “The Streets of Paris,” 
155 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


with colorful pictures of gaily dressed women, held 
no appeal for them; and they hardly paused before 
a large boxlike structure concealing the “Wild Man 
of Borneo.” 

“Most of those things are fakes,” Squint declared. 
“There’s a boxing show down the line, though; we 
might go in that.” 

The show, apparently, was just about to start, and 
the three boys joined the large crowd of men which 
had gathered before the entrance. Three boxers, 
wearing only jerseys and trunks and disclosing bulg- 
ing muscles, stood conspicuously upon a raised plat- 
form. The proprietor of the company was discours- 
ing loudly upon the merits of his particular attrac- 
tion. 

“Young Jeffries here,” he announced in rasping 
voice, “weighs one hundred and fifty-five pounds and 
is one of the greatest fighters in the country. And 
just to show you how good he is, I will give the sum 
of twenty-five dollars to any man in this town who 
can last four rounds with him in the boxing arena to- 
night.” 

He paused and regarded the crowd before him 
challengingly. 

“Any man who don’t weigh more than one hundred 
156 


THE FIREMAN’S CARNIVAL 


and eighty,” he continued pompously, “is invited 
to enter the ring with my pro-te-gee. And if that 
man is still in the ring after four rounds of fighting, 
the sum of twen-ty-five dol-lars is his. How about 
it? The challenge is thrown in the face of the men 
of this here town of Hillsdale.” 

For a minute or so no one answered. Young 
Jeffries folded his muscled arms and gazed out over 
the crowd. 

“Come one!” he said raspingly. “Who’s man 
enough to take me on?” 

But the silence among the onlookers continued. 

“The sum of twenty-five dollars,” the proprietor 
repeated, “will be given to any per-son. . . 

Suddenly, there was a stir in the audience. 

“Go on, Alf,” some one urged loudly. “Take him 
on!” 

Ward wheeled and discovered Alf Kearney and his 
cronies only a short distance away. Young Jeffries 
turned to them eagerly. 

“Any of you boobs want to get kilt?” he demanded. 
“If you do, just come inside.” 

The members of the Hillsdale Athletic Club 
pressed forward. 

“We got a man here who can make you look like 
157 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


a amachoor,” one of them called back. “And he 
needs a little spending money, too.” 

“How much does he weigh?” the proprietor asked 
quickly. 

“About the same as your man.” 

“Come inside then.” The speaker turned eagerly 
to the curious crowd. “And now, gentlemen,” he an- 
nounced importantly, “if you’ll each pay your twenty- 
five cents, one quar-ter of a dollar, you will see one 
of your townfolk take the full count of ten. The 
line forms on the right, and it costs only the in-sig- 
ni-fi-cant sum of twen-ty-five cents, one quar-ter of 
a dollar.” 

Bill Barrett faced his two companions eagerly. 

“Come on,” he suggested. “Let’s go in.” 

Just for a moment, Ward hesitated; boxing bouts 
were not quite in his line, but he was anxious to see 
Alf Kearney in action, to find out the stuff of which 
the former track coach was made. 

“Let’s go,” he agreed. 

There was a large canvas ring inside the tent, with 
about two hundred chairs grouped around it. They 
found places near the back of the enclosure, took 
their seats, and looked around curiously. Squint 
Anderson nudged Ward excitedly. 

158 


THE FIREMAN’S CARNIVAL 


“There’s Stretch Magens and his gang over by 
the ringside,” he whispered. “They’ve come to yell 
for Alf.” 

Ward glanced in the direction indicated and dis- 
covered Stretch, in company with Chuck Connors, Jim 
Stackhouse, and Art Denman. They were obviously 
excited, and eager for the bout to begin. 

“Is Alf really any good?” Ward asked curiously. 

Bill Barrett nodded. 

“Yes,” he answered, “he did a lot of boxing in the 
army, and he’s the best man in town.” 

“Think he can hold young Jeffries?” 

“Can’t tell.” 

There were two other bouts preceding the main 
affair, but Ward watched them only indifferently. 
He was anxious for Alf Kearney to make his ap- 
pearance. Somehow, he had the feeling that Alf 
would sooner or later make trouble for the Hillsdale 
track team. 

The former coach emerged finally from an ob- 
scure dressing room in the rear of the tent. One of 
his companions, apparently, had gone back to the 
Club for his fighting togs, for he wore the regulation 
trunks and jersey, disclosed through an opening in his 
gaudy dressing gown. The crowd cheered lustily, 
159 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


and Ward noticed that Stretch Magens and the other 
high school boys were loudest in their commenda- 
tion. 

“Stretch seems to think a lot of Kearney,” he re- 
marked. 

Squint nodded. 

“Birds of a feather flock together,” he said. 

The preliminaries took an amazingly long time. 
Young Jeffries insisted upon examining his op- 
ponent’s gloves; there was a squabble about the 
referee; another argument about the number of 
“seconds” for each man. But finally the details 
were arranged, and the bell rang. The crowd leaned 
forward expectantly. 

Ward had rather expected the two men to rush at 
each other immediately, to “mix things up” until 
one or the other gave ground, defeated. But ap- 
parently, that was not the way of experienced boxers. 
Kearney, his eyes shining, circled his opponent 
slowly, shifted his feet easily, stepped neatly aside 
out of reach of Young Jeffries’ sweeping right hand. 
The crowd yelled encouragement; and in almost no 
time the first round ended. 

“That’s the boy, Alf!” Stretch Magens called 
shrilly. 


160 


THE FIREMAN’S CARNIVAL 


Kearney, a grim smile playing about his mouth, 
glanced over at Stretch and winked confidently. 

“Regular old pals, aren’t they?” Squint asked of 
no one in particular. 

“Alf,” Bill declared, as if he really were an 
authority on boxing, “surely does know how to take 
care of himself.” 

Evidently, Kearney was a clever boxer, for the 
next two rounds went by without Young Jeffries land- 
ing an effective blow. The proprietor of the show, 
his face anxious, glanced over at Alf specula- 
tively, whispered something into the ears of his own 
fighter. 

Young Jeffries nodded, and when the bell rang for 
the final session, he rushed halfway across the ring, 
forced his opponent back, and directed an avalanche 
of blows in his direction. But Alf Kearney, as cool 
and collected as when the bout started, stepped skill- 
fully aside, and countered with a left jab which sent 
his opponent’s head back jerkily. 

Young Jeffries charged again, and again Alf 
avoided his ponderous advance. And then, so 
suddenly that Ward did not realize what had hap- 
pened, Alf’s right arm shot out, and his opponent fell 
with a loud thud on the canvas floor of the ring. 

161 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


The crowd roared happily; and the referee, leaning 
down began to count slowly: 

“One — , two — , three — , four — ” 

Young Jeffries rolled over on his side and opened 
his eyes. 

“Five — , six — ,” the referee droned. 

The fallen boxer climbed dazedly to his knees, 
looked around in apparent bewilderment. 

“Seven — , eight — ” 

Kearney stood over his fallen foe, his arms in 
readiness for a finishing blow. Young Jeffries 
glanced up at him doubtfully; hesitated for a fraction 
of a second, and then, closing his eyes, toppled back 
upon the floor. 

“Nine — , ten — , you’re out!” the referee 
announced. 

Bedlam broke loose in the tent. Eager figures 
rushed forward to grasp Alf Kearney by the hand, to 
carry him triumphantly from the ring. But Ward 
and his two companions did not wait for the demon- 
stration to end. Slipping quietly into the aisle, they 
made their way toward the entrance. 

Just before they passed out, however, Ward turned 
for a final glance into the room. Stretch Magens 
and Chuck Connors were standing beside the ring, 
162 


THE FIREMAN’S CARNIVAL 


yelling joyously; already the victorious boxer had 
been lifted to the shoulders of his clubmates. 

Ward, turning to leave the tent, frowned thought- 
fully. On Monday, he knew, the story would be 
known to every fellow in Hillsdale High. Alf 
Kearney would be more of a hero than before, and 
his influence would be stronger than it had ever been. 

Alf, apparently, still expected to coach the Hills- 
dale track team. But the team already had a 
coach. . . . 

Vaguely, Ward found himself wondering how it 
was all going to end. 


CHAPTER XV 


A CLASH 

T HROUGHOUT the following Monday at 
school, Ward was bothered by a premoni- 
tion that something was going to happen at 
the field that afternoon. He knew that Stretch 
Magens was not a boy to take kindly to criticism, and 
it seemed to him, from his brief association with Mr. 
Merritt, that the coach was in the habit of having his 
orders obeyed. He had not, of course, exactly 
ordered Stretch to change his style of jumping; but 
he had suggested it, and had, without doubt, expected 
Stretch to follow him unquestioningly. But the 
Hillsdale star had openly argued the matter, had 
practically declared that he knew as much about 
jumping as any one else. 

It was with mingled curiosity and apprehension, 
therefore, that Ward went to the basement after 
school to change into his track togs. The other 
members of the squad were there, talking about 
164 


A CLASH 


nothing in particular, keeping their eyes upon Stretch 
Magens, as if waiting for him to say something. But 
it was Art Denman who broached the subject. 

“Blondie doesn’t seem to think much of the way 
you do things, Stretch,” he remarked. “Going to 
change your style?” 

The other boy smiled importantly. 

“Not if I’m in my right senses,” he answered 
instantly. “There isn’t any reason why I should, is 
there?” 

“No reason in the world, except that the coach told 
you to,” Bill Barrett put in quietly — and Plug 
smiled. “Mr. Merritt was a track man in college, I 
think, and he probably knows what he’s talking 
about.” 

But Stretch shook his head. 

“I’m from Missouri,” he answered, “and I’ve got 
to be shown.” 

“That’s just what the coach is here for — to show 
you,” Ward announced. “If we’re not going to do 
what he tells us, what’s the use of having a coach?” 

But Stretch only grinned. 

“We didn’t ask for him, did we?” he demanded. 
“We were getting along all right without one.” 

165 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


No one had a word to say about that, and Stretch 
Magens smiled triumphantly. 

“Let’s get out to the field,” Jim Stackhouse sug- 
gested. “I think maybe Alf Kearney will be there 
this afternoon.” 

Ward hoped that he wouldn’t, and it was with a 
good deal of relief that he noted that Mr. Merritt 
alone was waiting for them. The coach greeted them 
pleasantly enough, but, when two or three of the 
men started to walk away from the bench, he called 
to them. 

“I want to talk to you fellows a little while before 
we get to work,” he announced. “Let’s go out on the 
grass and be comfortable.” 

They followed him across the cinder track and 
settled themselves on the warm ground in a circle 
around him. 

“Men,” he began, speaking quietly and looking 
squarely at them, “when I was a sophomore in col- 
lege and playing on the varsity football team, a new 
coach came to take charge of us. He was a famous 
man, one of the biggest football authorities in the 
country, and he probably knew more football than 
any of us could ever hope to learn. But people who 
had followed his career understood that it wasn’t so 
166 


A CLASH 


much his football knowledge as it was his knowl- 
edge of men which brought him his big successes. 
He was a real leader in every sense of the word, and 
he was always courteous and never lost his temper. 

“I remember his first day with us as if it were 
yesterday. We had a guard on the team, a big, 
strapping fellow, who was probably the strongest man 
in the college and who had been one of the stars of 
the varsity the preceding year. He was a good 
enough chap at heart, but he thought quite a lot of 
himself and believed that he was a football player of 
All-American caliber. When the new coach asked 
him to take his place on the line and charge forward 
against an imaginary opponent he did so in- 
differently, as if it was understood that he would do 
the thing right and that it was only something to get 
over with as quickly as possible. But the coach 
thought otherwise, and after the big lineman had gone 
through his stunt, he held up his hand for silence and 
called the rest of the candidates around him. 

64 ‘Men,’ he said to us, ‘this boy here has all kinds 
of natural ability, but he doesn’t know how to play 
scientific football. I want you to watch me while I 
go through the same movements and see the right way 
to do it.’ 


167 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


“He got down on his hands and knees then and 
charged forward eagerly, every muscle taut, his eyes 
flashing, his arms swinging; and as soon as he had 
done it, he turned to our varsity guard and asked him 
to try the same thing. The guard tried it, but his 
position was wrong and he did not swing his arms in 
the approved manner. When he had finished, the 
new coach turned to us again and held up his hand. 

“ ‘Men/ he said quietly, ‘you’ve just seen some- 
thing which I want you to remember always. No 
matter how good a man is in football or anything else, 
there is almost always some one who knows mote 
than he does. I happen to know more football than 
this boy here who played on your varsity last year, 
and I have just shown him the right way to charge an 
imaginary line. But, even though he has probably 
understood what he ought to do, he did not do it, but 
followed instead the method which he had been ac- 
customed to. And because he did that, I know that 
he can never be more than a mediocre lineman.’ 

“The big coach had been speaking quietly, but 
suddenly the lines about his mouth tightened and he 
turned to us with flashing eyes. 

“ ‘Fellows,’ he snapped, and his voice cut through 
168 


A CLASH 


us like a live thing. ‘I want you always to remember 
this : it’s a good man who takes his coaching ’ ” 

Ward Jackson, listening tensely to the story which 
Mr. Merritt was telling, felt the muscles of his own 
arms harden. But he did not say anything; and for 
almost a minute after the coach had finished speak- 
ing, the other candidates were silent. Then, with a 
sudden breaking of the tension, Mr. Merritt stood up 
and smiled down upon them. 

“ Remember this, fellows,” he said evenly; “it’s a 
good man who takes his coaching . Now let’s get 
down to work.” 

Ward noticed, as he walked over to the vaulting 
pit, that Stretch Magens’ face was flushed, and that 
his hands were clenched at his sides. He thought, 
for a moment, that Stretch was going to protest, was 
going to say that there was no connection whatever 
between him and the football player of the story. 
But, after a moment of indecision, the Hillsdale star 
•turned and walked quietly down the track. Mr. 
Merritt, without so much as a glance at him, gave his 
attention to the runners. But Ward knew that it was 
for Stretch’s benefit that the story had been told; and 
he could not help wondering what the other boy was 
going to do about it. 


169 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


When Coach Merritt went over to the jumping pit 
later in the afternoon, therefore. Ward stopped his 
pole vaulting for a time and followed him across the 
field. Magens, ignoring the older man’s presence, 
fitted the cross bar at a height slightly over five feet 
and made his jump; and, as he walked back again 
to try for the second time, he kept his eyes to the 
ground, just as if the coach had not been watching 
him. But Mr. Merritt, with a faint smile playing 
about his lips, touched him on the shoulder. 

“Magens,” he said, and it seemed to Ward as if 
there was a hint of appeal in his voice, “you re- 
member what I told you about your form yesterday, 
don’t you?” 

The Hillsdale star nodded. 

“Yes,” he answered, “but it’s the way I’ve always 
jumped, and I don’t think I could change it.” 

For a moment, the coach regarded him quizzically. 

“Why?” he asked finally. 

Stretch was a bit surprised at the direct question. 
It looked to Ward as if he had expected to be criti- 
cized, to be dictated to; and the simple query, given 
without rancor or resentment, rather took the wind 
out of his sails. But he recovered himself almost 
instantly. 


170 


A CLASH 


“I don’t see why there’s any need to change,” he 
declared with a touch of defiance. “I’ve always won 
first place jumping the way I do now, and I couldn’t 
do any better, no matter how I jumped.” 

The coach nodded, his face serious, his eyes ques- 
tioning. 

“Are you planning to go to college?” he asked. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Going out for the track team there?” 

“I expect to.” 

The coach nodded grimly. 

“Then,” he said, “you might just as well learn how 
to jump now as later. Because there isn’t a college 
track coach in the country who would permit you to 
keep on jumping the way you do.” 

But Stretch only shook his head stubbornly. 

“I’m not so sure about that,” he said evenly, “and 
you haven’t told me yet what’s the matter with my 
jumping, anyhow.” 

“I’d be glad to tell you if you’ll agree to follow 
directions,” the coach declared quietly. “But if you 
won’t it’s only so much waste of breath.” 

Ward Jackson, standing slightly to one side, was 
surprised to find himself waiting almost eagerly for 
Stretch’s answer. As far as Stretch was concerned, 
171 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


he did not care particularly whether the promise was 
given or not, but he knew that the incident, trivial as 
it might seem, was nothing more or less than a test of 
the coach’s authority. He wanted Mr. Merritt to 
come out ahead, to prove himself the leader that Ward 
knew him to be. 

But Stretch Magens was not a boy to give in easily, 
even though he was in the wrong; and, after a brief 
moment of hesitation, his face clouded and his lips 
shut resolutely. 

“I think,” he said, c ‘that I’ve won enough first 
places for the school to make my own decision 
whether I want to change or not, and I don’t think 
that I want to change.” 

He looked up defiantly into the older man’s eyes, 
and, for a few seconds, Mr. Merritt returned his look 
steadily and without flinching. 

“Fm pretty sure, Magens,” he said finally, “that 
you are making a big mistake, and that some time you 
will be sorry for it. But I am not so certain but that 
it won’t be best for you to learn your lesson your- 
self.” 

Stretch smiled confidently. 

“I’ll guarantee to win every event I enter this 
year,” he said shortly. 


172 


A CLASH 


But the coach did not seem to hear him. 

“Of course,” he continued, speaking slowly and 
without bitterness, “I could drop you from the team 
and get along as well as possible without you. But, 
as I understand the situation, that would only harm 
the school, and it is the school, I hope, that we are 
both working for. So I am going to let you stay on 
the team and jump your own way, but under one con- 
dition.” 

“That’s what?” Stretch asked curiously. 

He was aware of the fact that the majority of his 
team mates were watching him, and he knew that, at 
the mention of dropping him from the squad, their 
mouths had opened with amazement. But Stretch 
believed that the new coach would not dare drop him, 
for he was secure in his position as the biggest point 
winner in the school. So he simply smiled. 

“What is the condition?” he asked. 

“You can stay on the team,” Mr. Merritt said 
finally, “if you will take the blame upon yourself for 
any defeat you may suffer during the season, and if 
you will admit openly and honestly that you were 
wrong.” 

The boy nodded. 


173 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


“Of course I’ll do it,” he said, “but the question of 
being beaten isn’t worrying me at all.” 

The coach held up his hand then, and called the 
entire squad around him. 

“Men,” he said, when they were all present, 
“Magens and I have had a little difference of 
opinion. He wants to jump one way and I want him 
to jump another way. We’ve decided, though, that 
he can follow his own inclinations; but if he is 
beaten, he promises to admit to all of us that he is in 
the wrong, that the burden of defeat rests upon him 
alone. That’s right, isn’t it, Magens?” 

The boy inclined his head. 

“Yes,” he answered lightly, “I’ll take the blame on 
myself.” 

“That’s settled then.” For a moment the coach 
waited quietly, while the members of the track squad 
regarded him doubtfully, as if they were not sure 
whether he or Stretch Magens had won the victory. 
But finally, he held up his hand for silence. “Don’t 
forget, fellows,” he said evenly, “that I want you all 
to remember this: it’s a good man who takes his 
coaching .” 

Ward Jackson, listening, was suddenly conscious 
of a double meaning in the coach’s words. Stretch 
174 


A CLASH 


Magens had considered himself too good a man to 
be coached — but it was only a good man who took 
his coaching. And Stretch, by not taking it, had 
promised to bear the burden of defeat, if defeat 
should come his way, upon his own slender shoulders. 
It was up to Stretch now, and not to the older man. 
And if Stretch should be defeated. . . . 

Somehow, Ward knew that Coach Merritt, even in 
apparent defeat, had really won the victory. For it 
was now up to Stretch . 




CHAPTER XVI 


THE COWARD 

F OR two days the affairs of the Hillsdale 
track team went along smoothly and with- 
out incident. Stretch Magens, his face a 
little more sober than usual, reported for practice 
each afternoon, nodded pleasantly to Coach Merritt, 
and went about his work of high jumping with an 
attitude of grim resolution which boded ill for his 
future opponents. Ward Jackson, watching him, was 
strongly impressed by his seriousness of purpose, 
by his evident determination to prove himself in 
the right, so far as his form and style were con- 
cerned. 

“Looks to me as if Stretch is going to jump higher 
than ever this year,” Ward remarked to Bill Barrett. 
“He’s cleared five feet, seven inches already.” 

But Bill looked dubious. 

“He’ll probably be good for a couple of inches 
better than that in every meet he enters,” he 
answered. “But if, by any chance, some other fellow 
176 


THE COWARD 


jumps five feet, ten, .Stretch will be lost. You wait 
and see.” 

Ward almost hoped that the other boy was right. 
Stretch seemed so sure of himself, so utterly in- 
different to Coach Merritt’s criticism, that it seemed 
to Ward as if he deserved to be brought down a peg. 
But Ward knew that if Magens failed, the Hillsdale 
team would probably lose also . . . and he did not 
want Hillsdale to be *beaten. So he told himself 
grimly that perhaps he was beginning to be jealous of 
Stretch Magens, and that he was getting to be a “sore- 
head.” He would have to quit that kind of thing. 

He could not help wondering, though, why it was 
that Stretch could ignore directions and still be a 
successful jumper, while he , in spite of the fact that 
he did everything that the coach told him, could not 
even clear the bar at the low height of eight feet. 
But he kept on trying just the same, and, after each 
successive failure, he only gritted his teeth the harder 
and forced himself to renewed efforts. 

“If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again,” he 
quoted. “But gee!” he added whimsically, “a fellow 
is likely to get tired, after a while, of just trying .” 

He kept at it, though, grimly, determinedly. He 
was the only fellow in the school who seemed to be 
177 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


interested in the pole vault event, and there was no 
one to work with him, to spur him on by close com- 
petition. 

“I wonder,” he ventured, when Coach Merritt 
stopped for a moment to watch him, “if I’ll ever be 
able to do any better.” 

The older man smiled encouragingly. 

“Of course you will,” he answered. “Vaulting, 
you know, isn’t a thing to be learned in a day. And 
after you once master the new method, you’ll find it 
much easier. I have a good deal of faith in you. 
Ward.” 

Somehow, it seemed easy for the coach to call the 
fellows by their first names. When you got a good 
look at him, Ward reflected, he was hardly more than 
a boy himself. He couldn’t be more than twenty- 
four or five, and at times, especially when he smiled, 
he wasn’t so very different from the members of the 
team. But there were other times when his face 
clouded and the blue of his eyes seemed suddenly 
gray. In those moments, Ward wondered if perhaps 
he hadn’t been through a lot of trouble; he seemed 
almost unhappy. There was an American Legion 
button in his coat; he must have been in the war, 
Ward decided, even in France, perhaps. He re- 
178 


THE COWARD 


solved that sometime he would ask the coach about 
it, if he dared. 

The team itself seemed to be going along in good 
shape, but it was almost too early to make any definite 
predictions. The first meet with Winston was still 
more than two weeks away, and a lot could happen 
in that time. But already Coach Merritt had picked 
out two or three boys who he said had unusual 
promise. One of them, Ned Conrad, a sophomore, 
was being groomed for the mile run. Ned had been 
out the year before, but Alf Kearney had not paid 
any attention to him. 

So far, Alf had not appeared at practice, and re- 
port had it that he was driving an ice wagon around 
town and working every day until after six o’clock. 
But Bill Barrett declared that sooner or later he would 
give up the job and report upon the field. Alf never 
worked longer than was absolutely necessary. 

Ward was surprised, however, when, on the fourth 
day of practice, Alf made his appearance. The 
former coach came through the gate jauntily, glanced 
indifferently at three or four of the new candidates, 
and nodded pleasantly to Captain Jim Stackhouse, 
who was sitting on the bench near the starting line. 

“How goes it, Jim?” he asked. “Sorry I couldn’t 
179 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


get up before, but I’ve chucked my job now and 
expect to be with you every day.” 

Stackhouse smiled uncertainly, and glanced across 
the track to where Stretch Magens was jumping. 

“All right, Alf,” he answered. “I — we’ve got a 
coach this year, you know, one of the teachers of the 
school. A new man!” 

Alf Kearney’s face darkened. 

“What’s the big idea?” he asked. “Didn’t I win 
the county championship with you last year?” 

“Yes.” The team captain gulped. “But the 
Board of Education gave this new man a job as 
teacher of English and coach of track and football. 
He’s been to college.” 

Alf gazed thoughtfully across the field, apparently 
pondering the situation. 

“Is he any good?” he asked abruptly. 

“Seems all right. But I don’t think he’s any bet- 
ter than you, Alf.” 

“Humph! What’s the idea then? Is he going to 
be the big boss?” 

“I don’t know.” Stackhouse was plainly troubled, 
and he spoke placatingly, as if he was afraid of 
hurting Alf Kearney’s feelings. “He knows a lot 
about field events,” he added. “Perhaps the two of 
180 


THE COWARD 


you could divide things, with him coaching in the 
field and you on the track.” 

Kearney nodded. 

“Perhaps we could,” he answered gruffly, but it 
was easy to see that he was not pleased. “Where 
is he?” 

“Over there with Mel Chalmers.” 

The former coach looked in the direction indicated, 
and just at that moment, the other man turned and 
came toward the bench. The team captain stood up 
awkwardly. 

“This is Alf Kearney, Mr. Merritt,” he said. “He 
coached our team last year.” 

For a moment the two men eyed each other spec- 
ulatively, then Kearney held out his hand. 

“Glad to know you,” he said. “Expect to do all 
the coaching yourself this year?” 

The other man nodded. 

“Yes, I think I can handle it,” he answered quietly. 
“But I want to thank you for what you have already 
done for the team.” 

“Well, I brought them the championship last 
season. No one could do better than that.” 

“They surely couldn’t.” Coach Merritt turned to 
181 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 

go; but Jim Stackhouse, at a look from Alf Kearney, 
detained him. 

“We thought maybe that Alf could help you out 
this year,” he suggested. “Perhaps he can take care 
of track and you could look after the field events.” 

Coach Merritt’s eyes opened wide. 

“I hadn’t thought that we needed any help, with 
such a small squad,” he answered evenly. “How- 
ever, it’s worth considering.” 

But he did not commit himself ; and after a moment, 
when the team captain did not answer, he walked over 
to where Ward Jackson and Bill Barrett were stand- 
ing. 

“Bill,” he asked, “what kind of a man is that Alf 
Kearney, anyhow?” 

Bill did not know quite what to answer; some of 
the fellows seemed to like Kearney pretty well, and 
he was a good enough coach in some ways. 

“I never cared much for him,” the boy said finally. 
“He never even went to high school, and he hangs 
around town a good deal, without working. He 
swears sometimes, too, and once in a while, when 
there’s a chance to pick up some extra money, he 
does some professional boxing. I — I don’t think 
he’s a very good influence on the team.” 

182 


THE COWARD 


The coach nodded. 

“Thank you, Bill,” he said quietly, “I’m going to 
accept your judgment of him.” 

Turning, he walked across the field to where 
Kearney was still talking to J im Stackhouse. 

“Mr. Kearney,” he said quietly, “I’ve been think- 
ing things over and I’ve decided that one boss in a 
proposition like this track team is better than two. 
My job, you know, is coaching the track candidates; 
it’s what I’m paid for, and I rather think that it’s up to 
me to take the responsibility myself.” 

Alf Kearney’s eyes narrowed. 

“Does that mean,” he demanded, “that I’m not 
wanted around here any more?” 

“I wouldn’t take it just that way.” The Hills- 
dale coach still spoke pleasantly. “The facts in the 
case are these ; I’m paid to coach the team, and I feel 
that I’m obligated to do it.” 

“Humph!” Kearney seemed at a loss for a 
suitable reply. “How about it?” he demanded, turn- 
ing to Jim Stackhouse. 

The team captain cleared his throat. 

“The fellows thought they’d like to have Alf help 
out, Mr. Merritt,” he said. “We’re used to him, you 
know.” 


183 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


The coach wheeled sharply, and faced the members 
of the team who had gathered about the bench. 

“How many of you boys said that?” he demanded. 

No one answered for a moment, then: 

“I didn’t, for one,” Ward announced. 

Jim Stackhouse frowned. 

“Jackson isn’t really on the team,” he said. 
“He’s only a sub.” 

But Coach Merritt had evidently made his decision. 

“I’m sorry, Kearney,” he declared, “but I don’t 
think that I’ll need you this year. I want you to 
know, though, how much we all appreciate. . . .” 

But Alf Kearney interrupted him. 

“Do you happen to know,” he asked importantly, 
“that I gave up my job to-day just so that I could 
coach this here track team?” 

“No,” Coach Merritt answered. “But if I were 
you, I’d get the job back again.” 

Some one snickered at that, and Alf Kearney’s face 
grew red. For a moment he glared into his suc- 
cessor’s quiet eyes, then he turned questioningly to 
the members of the team. 

“How about it, fellows?” he asked. “Which do 
you want, me or the new man?” 

For an instant, the track candidates looked at one 
184 


THE COWARD 

another doubtfully; then Bill Barrett stepped out of 
the circle. 

“Mr. Merritt’s our coach now, Alf,” he said, “and 
we’re standing in with him, of course.” 

The others nodded; all but Stretch Magens, whose 
face was impassive. 

“Even if we do want you, Alf,” Jim Stackhouse 
hastened to put in, “the school principal would have 
something to say about it.” 

“Maybe he would, and maybe he wouldn’t.” 
Kearney spoke sneeringly. “I ain’t in the habit of 
butting in where I’m not wanted,” he said turning to 
Coach Merritt. “The boys, of course, would have to 
stick up for you; you’re their teacher and they know 
which side their bread’s buttered on.” Suddenly, 
his face darkened. “But what are you going to do if 
I decide to stick around anyhow?” he demanded. 

Ward hoped that the new coach would tell him that 
he’d run him off the field if he didn’t go of his own 
will, but Mr. Merritt openly avoided the issue. 

“You’re too much of a gentleman for that, I hope,” 
he said evenly. 

Kearney sneered again. 

“Come on down off your high horse,” he urged. 
“What would you do?” 


185 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


For a moment, the high school coach hesitated, and 
Ward noticed that his fists were clenched. 

“If you persist in coming up here,” he answered, 
“I’ll telephone the police station and have an officer 
escort you off the field.” 

Kearney grunted. 

“Might have known it would be something like 
that,” he answered. “Don’t happen to be afraid to 
put me off yourself, do you?” 

Coach Merritt shook his head. 

“No, not afraid,” he answered quietly, “just re- 
luctant.” 

For a moment, Kearney regarded him specula- 
tively, almost threateningly. Then he chuckled, as 
if he had just remembered a joke which no one else 
knew about. 

“Oh, no,” he said, “you’re not afraid. Of course 
not!” He turned slowly away and bowed with ex- 
aggerated politeness. “So long, fellows!” he added, 
“I’m leaving you to ‘Blondie’s’ care from now on.” 

They watched him without comment until he had 
made his way through the gate at the far end of the 
field. Then Coach Merritt turned to the squad. 

“We’ll try to forget this, fellows,” he said evenly. 
“Such incidents aren’t worth remembering.” 

186 


THE COWARD 


But Ward Jackson knew that the team would not 
forget about it. For Alf Kearney had practically 
challenged Coach Merritt to throw him out, and the 
coach had not accepted the challenge. 

Could it be, Ward asked himself unbelievingly, 
that the new coach was a coward, was afraid of Alf 
Kearney? Ward knew, in his heart of hearts, that 
it wasn’t so. But he knew, too, what Stretch Magens 
would say. Already, Stretch was walking arm in 
arm up the field with Art Denman. Before another 
day had passed, the story would be all over town. 


CHAPTER XVII 


THE JUNIOR RECEPTION 

I T was strange how the school took sides for and 
against the track coach. Ward could not 
understand it. Even though Stretch Magens 
and Art Denman did everything in their power to 
make it seem as if Mr. Merritt were afraid of Alf 
Kearney, there were a good many of the students, 
especially those in Junior English class, who de- 
clared openly that the new teajcher had done the only 
possible thing to do. 

“What do you think wo are, anyhow, a crowd of 
prize fighters?” Bill Barrett demanded, after 
Stretch had finished his story for the twentieth time. 
“Mr. Merritt’s a gentleman, and he treated Alf just 
as he deserved.” 

“He was afraid, just the same,” Stretch contended. 
“He might at least have stood up to Alf, instead of 
crawling out of it. Why didn’t he tell Alf he’d put 
him out himself if he didn’t go?” 

188 


THE JUNIOR RECEPTION 


“He probably could, if he wanted to,” Bill 
answered. “But that isn’t a gentleman’s way.” 

“Bosh!” Stretch’s eyes flashed angrily. “He was 
afraid, I tell you.” 

Part of the school agreed with Stretch, but the big 
majority didn’t seem to care about it one way or the 
other; and, if the star member of the track team had 
only been content to let the matter drop, it would 
probably have been forgotten within a few days. 
But Stretch seemed possessed with the idea of brand- 
ing Coach Merritt as a coward; and gradually his per- 
sistence began to bear fruit, until, three days before 
the first dual meet with Winston, a feeling had spread 
about the school that possibly the track director 
wasn’t everything that he pretended to be. 

Ward Jackson, sensing the general attitude, was 
plainly worried over the injustice of it. He was 
fairly certain, however, that Mr. Merritt did not know 
anything about it, for Stretch had taken care only to 
circulate the story among the students, and it had not 
yet reached the ears of the faculty. 

It was wrong, though, Ward decided, and he hoped 
that the whole affair would be forgotten after the 
first meet with Winston, which promised an easy 
victory for Hillsdale. Ward was surprised, too, at 
189 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


the interest which the school was showing in the con- 
test. Something seemed to have happened to the 
school during the past few weeks, since Mr. Merritt 
had made his appearance, in fact. Hitherto, no one 
had cared especially about the track team, and only 
a handful of spectators had come out to the meets. 
But two days before the affair with Winston, the head 
cheer leader called a mass meeting for three o’clock 
in the auditorium, and the entire student body re- 
sponded. They came mostly out of curiosity, and 
went away with a new conception of school spirit, a 
new understanding of the significance of athletic 
teams. For Coach Merritt talked to them; told them 
quietly, but with a thrill in every sentence, of his own 
college days, when no Princeton varsity had ever 
taken the field without the whole college behind it. 

Ward Jackson, listening, could not have explained 
what it was which made his heart thump violently, 
and caused a rim of tears to well into his eyes. But, 
when the speaker had finished, he was conscious of 
the birth of a new spirit at Hillsdale, and he knew 
that hereafter the track team would win its victories or 
meet its defeats with the entire school cheering it on, 
loyally and without reserve. 

And as he walked silently through the door of the 
190 


THE JUNIOR RECEPTION 


auditorium, Ward looked defiantly into Stretch 
Magens’ troubled eyes, until the other boy glanced 
away and seemed suddenly embarrassed. 

The meet itself came up to expectations. Jim 
Stackhouse won the two sprints without apparent 
effort; Bill Barrett was first in the two mile, Foulds 
counted ten points in the hurdles, and Chalmers was 
an easy winner in the shot put. Ned Conrad, run- 
ning his first race for Hillsdale, was barely beaten 
out in the mile event, and Stretch Magens, of course, 
lived up to the school’s faith in him by a brace of 
victories in the jumps. 

Ward noticed, as the meet progressed, that each 
winner drew forth his share of cheers but he 
noticed, too, after Stretch had won the broad jump, 
that the “long yell” for him was louder than any of 
the others. Stretch was still the hero of the school, 
the man who had not yet been beaten. 

As for Ward himself, his own efforts were again a 
failure. The Winston pole vaulter was not espe- 
cially good, but he was good enough to clear the bar 
at nine feet, and Ward was at least eight inches below 
him. For a time, after he had missed in his final try, 
Ward was tempted to throw over the whole thing, to 
put away his spiked shoes and garnet jersey and 
191 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


admit himself beaten. Utterly discouraged, he 
flopped down on the ground beside the runway and 
gave himself over to moody pondering. What was the 
use, he argued. He was a dub, pure and simple, and 
would never be anything else. 

Suddenly, he felt the touch of a hand on his 
shoulder; and, looking up, he found Coach Merritt 
standing over him. 

“Keep at it, Ward,” the older man said quietly. 
“We’re never beaten until the end of the game, you 
know.” 

His face flushed, Ward climbed to his feet. The 
other members of the team were watching Stretch 
Magens in the high jump; not a single man had any 
interest at all in him — except Mr. Merritt. A sudden 
wave of gratitude toward the coach surged through 
the sturdy frame of Ward Jackson. The discouraged 
lines disappeared from his face, and the old fighting 
spirit glowed in his eyes. 

“Thanks, sir,” he said evenly. “I — I’ll keep on 
trying.” 

“Of course you will.” Just for an instant, the 
older man permitted his hand to rest on the boy’s 
shoulder. “I have faith in you, Ward,” he said. 

It was because of that faith that Ward Jackson re- 
192 


THE JUNIOR RECEPTION 


ported for practice as usual on Monday afternoon. 
Some of the other men had been told to stay away 
from the field, to forget about track for a day or so, to 
keep themselves from going “stale.” But no such 
order had been given to the “dubs,” and Ward had 
gone up to the field as usual. It was a glorious day, 
with not a cloud to break the unshaded blue of the 
sky, and the golden sun casting long shadows over 
the wooded mountains to the north. Ward won- 
dered, as he walked down to the tool house to get his 
pole, how he could possibly have been so discouraged 
on Saturday. Suddenly, he found himself confident 
of ultimate success; he was going to learn to pole 
vault, he told himself grimly, if only to justify the 
coach’s confidence in him. 

He found that Mr. Merritt had a lot of time to spare 
for him that afternoon, and for almost an hour he 
practiced steadily, while the coach showed him very 
carefully just how to hold his hands, how to lift him- 
self when he once was off the ground, and how to fall 
into the soft turf of the pit without danger of injury. 
It was hard, though, to remember all the instructions 
at one time and, although he plugged along grimly, 
Ward was just a bit discouraged to find that he was 
not clearing the bar at a greater height than eight feet. 

193 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


It occurred to him that he might do better if he could 
watch some one else go through the motions, and 
impulsively he turned to Coach Merritt. 

“I wish you would show me just how you do it 
yourself,” he suggested. “I think that I could get 
the knack better then.” 

He held out the pole and dropped it into Mr. 
Merritt’s outstretched hand. Just for an instant, the 
older man measured the distance to the crossbar, 
while his fingers gripped the pole almost affection- 
ately and the shadow of a smile played about his 
mouth. Then suddenly, and without any apparent 
reason, he turned to the boy beside him. 

“I’m sorry, Ward,” he said, “but I can’t show you 
hcrw to do it. I’ll have to be content with just telling 
you.” 

For an instant, Ward’s eyes opened wide. He could 
not understand why Coach Merritt, who apparently 
knew so much about pole vaulting, was not willing to 
clear the bar himself. But Mr. Merritt made no 
further explanation, and Ward did not quite have the 
courage to ask him about it. But for the first time 
since the track mentor had come to Hillsdale Ward’s 
confidence in the older man was just a bit shaken. 
In spite of his belief that Mr. Merritt was all that any 
194 


THE JUNIOR RECEPTION 


one could hope him to be, Ward could not help re- 
membering some of the remarks Stretch Magens had 
made about their new coach being both a* coward and 
a bluff. Could it be, Ward asked himself, that 
Coach Merritt really did not know very much about 
pole vaulting? 

But after the first moment of doubt Ward shook 
his head almost angrily and went back to his vaulting. 
Mr. Merritt, watching him, continued to give en- 
couragement and advice; until, just before it was time 
to stop, Ward cleared the bar at almost nine feet. 
When he arose again and looked up questioningly. 
Coach Merritt nodded. 

“You were at least six feet above the bar that time, 
Ward,” he announced. “You’re getting the idea 
now, and in another week we’ll be having you do ten 
feet.” 

Ward was anxious to try again, to keep on trying 
until darkness set in, but the coach shook his head. 

“That’s enough for to-day,” he said. “You don’t 
want to overdo it.” 

Ward went to bed that night with the firm belief 
that he had learned the secret of pole vaulting, that 
on the next afternoon he would surprise the whole 
squad by sailing over the bar at ten feet or more. 

195 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


But strangely, when he tried again on Tuesday, he 
was as bad as ever; all the old faults had returned 
and he made a miserable failure of each attempt. 
But he only shook his head grimly and continued his 
vaulting. 

“The knack will come to me again, sooner or 
later,” he muttered. “And until it does, it’s up to 
me to keep right on plugging.” 

After a time, he walked over to the jumping pit to 
watch Stretch Magens at work. The star jumper 
moved gracefully, confidently, but Ward noted that 
whenever he put the bar at a height over five feet nine 
inches, he invariably knocked it down. Stretch was 
larger than he had been the preceding year, and he 
ought to have been able to jump higher, Ward re- 
flected, but he was still clearing the same old height, 
and not an inch more. Something of what Coach 
Merritt had said about a good man taking his coach- 
ing came back to Ward, and he shook his head doubt- 
fully. Stretch had considered himself better than 
his coach, and he was not getting anywhere, was only 
standing still. 

But if Stretch was aware of his lack of improve- 
ment, he gave no indication of it. He was still the 
same jaunty, self-satisfied boy he had always been; 

196 


THE JUNIOR RECEPTION 


and once, when the coach made a suggestion, he only 
nodded indifferently and went on doing the thing in 
his own way. The thought of defeat had probably 
never entered his mind. 

He still talked occasionally about the incident of 
Alf Kearney’s dismissal, but after Coach Merritt’s 
speech about school spirit there had not been many 
people to listen to him. Only Art Denman and a 
group of his close followers still branded the coach 
as a coward. But the affair worried Ward, neverthe- 
less; he would not be satisfied, he decided, until every 
single member of the school recognized the coach for 
the real man that he was, true blue and a thorough- 
bred. 

He was glad, though, that no open rupture had oc- 
curred, that things promised to continue to go well 
with the track team; and he had just about decided 
that the season would be a success, when Coach 
Merritt made his decision concerning the Junior Re- 
ception. 

He came down to the basement of the school with 
the team on Wednesday afternoon, and after they 
were all dressed, he asked them to wait a moment 
while he said a word or two. 

“Fellows,” he announced, after they had gathered 
197 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


around him, “I understand that the reception of the 
junior class to the seniors will be held on Friday- 
night. I am sorry that it comes on the evening before 
the meet with Millville, for it means, of course, that 
no member of the track team can attend.” 

The coach stopped speaking and regarded the boys 
before him steadily. It seemed to Ward as if he 
rather expected somebody to protest; and Ward 
knew, after a single glance at his team mates, that one 
of them at least was going to have something to say 
about it. But for perhaps ten seconds no one spoke, 
and Mr. Merritt was just about to turn away when 
Stretch Magens rose from his place in one corner of 
the room. 

“Mr. Merritt,” he said, and his voice quavered just 
a bit, “I’ve been planning to go to the Junior Recep- 
tion for over two weeks, and I can’t very well back 
out of it now.” 

The coach’s eyes narrowed. 

“How many of you other men have planned to 
go?” he asked. 

Art Denman held up his hand. 

“I’ll be there, of course,” he answered, “and Jim 
Stackhouse is a member of the senior class. He and 
Stretch and I are going together.” 

193 


THE JUNIOR RECEPTION 


For a moment, the coach did not speak, and when 
he turned to the team again, Ward noticed that his 
eyes were bluer than he had ever seen them. 

“Men,” he said quietly, but there was something in 
the way he spoke which caused the boys before him to 
sit up very straight, “no track team can win victories 
when its members stay out until midnight on the day 
before the meet. And as long as I am track coach at 
Hillsdale, no member of our track will break train- 
ing in that way.” 

Stretch Magens smiled, but his face was pale. 

“Does that mean,” he asked, “that we are for- 
bidden to go to the Junior Reception on Friday 
night?” 

The coach nodded. 

“Yes,” he said, “that’s exactly what it means.” 

Ward noticed that there was no hint of indecision 
in his attitude, as there had been during his first 
clash with Stretch Magens. This time the coach was 
giving an order and not simply making a suggestion; 
and Ward knew, after one glance into those steady 
blue eyes, that he expected to have his order obeyed. 

But Stretch Magens, remembering probably what 
had happened when he had defied the coach on a pre- 
199 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


vious occasion, thrust his hands deeply into his 
pockets and faced the older man almost mock- 
ingly. 

“I’ve planned to go to that reception,” he said im- 
portantly, “and I’m going.” Then, as he met the 
coach’s eye, his voice grew a trifle more husky. “I’m 
sorry that it has to be on the night before a meet,” he 
answered, “but I’ll guarantee to win the two jumps, 
anyhow.” 

But Coach Merritt seemed hardly to be listening to 
him. He turned away almost before Stretch had 
finished speaking and looked directly into the 
troubled face of Captain Jim Stackhouse. 

“What about you, Jim?” he asked. “Are you 
going to the reception, or aren’t you?” 

Stackhouse hesitated and glanced appealingly at 
the other boys, but found nothing in their attitude 
which he could construe as encouraging. And then, 
as his glance fell upon the stern face of the coach, he 
wavered. 

“I — I — thought I was going,” he said uncertainly. 
“But, of course, if you say we can’t, then I suppose 
I’ll have to stay home.” 

The coach nodded grimly. 

“All right,” he said, “that’s settled then.” He 
200 


THE JUNIOR RECEPTION 


turned quietly to the other members of the team. 
“Fellows,” he announced, “I have given an order that 
no member of the track team can go to the Junior Re- 
ception on Friday night, and your captain has backed 
me up. And now I want to make one further state- 
ment. If any member of this team attends the re- 
ception on Friday, he will not be permitted to take 
part in the Millville meet the next day.” 

The eyes of the group opened wide at that, and 
one or two of the hoys cleared their throats huskily. 

But it was Stretch Magens who spoke. 

“Does that refer to me?” he asked. 

“Yes,” and Coach Merritt looked directly at him, 
“that refers to any member of the team.” 

“And if Stretch goes, does it mean that he can’t 
jump against Millville?” Jim Stackhouse demanded. 

Again the coach nodded. 

“Yes,” he answered, “it means that he can’t jump 
against Millville.” 

“But — ” the captain’s face was troubled, “we’ll 
probably lose without Stretch.” 

“We probaby will; but if we do, the burden of de- 
feat will rest upon Magens’ shoulders.” 

For a moment there was silence, and then Jim 
Stackhouse turned to the star jumper. 

201 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


“What are you going to do about it, Stretch?” he 
asked appealingly. 

Magens’ mouth set stubbornly. 

“I’m going to the Junior Reception,” he said. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


AT THE HILLSDALE A. C. 

E VEN in view of what Stretch Magens had 
said. Ward was not at all sure that the other 
boy would make good his boast to attend 
the Junior Reception. For in spite of many of the 
things that he did, Ward strongly suspected that 
Stretch was not such a bad fellow at heart. There 
was, for instance, that incident of the swimming race 
at Brookfield, when Stretch had shown himself a good 
sportsman by taking his defeat without whining. 
Ward could not quite forget the other boy’s words at 
the conclusion of that race, could not quite get over 
the feeling that if Stretch could once be brought to his 
senses, all trouble in the track team, and in the school, 
would be brought to an end. As far as Ward could 
judge, Magens was a fellow who liked to have his own 
way, who wanted to be in the limelight all the time. 
But if he could only be made to understand that it 
was the school that counted, and not himself, things 
203 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 

would be different. But so far even Mr. Merritt had 
not been able to make him understand. 

The day following the coach’s ultimatum concern- 
ing the Junior Reception was ushered in by a down- 
pour of rain, which flooded the athletic field and made 
practice impossible. Word went around school at 
twelve o’clock that there would be only one session, 
that the students would not be required to return to 
the building in the afternoon. It was a new ex- 
perience for Ward, and when he had finished his 
lunch he found time hanging heavily on his hands. 
He rather hoped that Bill and Squint would drop 
around to see him ; but when two o’clock arrived and 
neither of his two chums made an appearance, he de- 
cided that he would go out to the garage and wash 
his father’s car. It was one of his duties, in return 
for a generous allowance, to keep the big machine in 
order, and he knew that it needed washing. 

Whistling a snatch of the school song, he applied 
himself industriously to the task at hand, making free 
use of soap and water, oblivious of the passing of 
time. A good many things had happened, he re- 
flected, since he had moved to Hillsdale at the begin- 
ning of the basketball season. There sure was a big 
difference between life at a city school like DeWitt 
204 


AT THE HILLSDALE A. C. 

Clinton, he decided, and the daily happenings at the 
smaller school in which he was now enrolled. At 
Clinton every sport had been carefully organized, di- 
rected by an efficient coach; but at Hillsdale, it was the 
boys themselves who ran things. It was, in a certain 
sense, the better way, if only the fellows themselves 
could be taught to accept their responsibilities, could 
be made to consider the good of the school of more 
importance than their own personal desires. There 
were a number of students who could be depended 
upon to do that; Bill Barrett, for instance, and Phil 
Janeway; but unless Stretch Magens and his im- 
mediate followers could be awakened to a stronger 
sense of school loyalty, the efforts of Bill and the 
others would be more or less futile. What Stretch 
needed, Ward was convinced, was a big jolt, some- 
thing to shock him out of his selfishness. 

Sighing, Ward wound up the hose, put away the 
sponge and soap, and prepared to return to the house. 
It was his intention either to settle himself in the 
library with a good book, or call up Bill and Squint 
and find out what they were going .to do. It was not 
yet three o’clock, and Ward found himself restless, 
without definite purpose. 

205 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


He had hardly reached the house, however, when 
Bill Barrett rang the front doorbell. 

“How about hiking down to the Y. M. C. A. and 
finding something to do?” Bill asked. “Squint’s 
there, I think, and some of the other fellows.” 

Ward agreed readily, changed into suitable cloth- 
ing, and wandered downtown with the other boy. At 
the Association building, they found Squint Ander- 
son and Mel Chalmers, who greeted them cordially 
and suggested a game of pool. The tables, however, 
proved to be all in use; and, as the gymnasium had 
been turned over to the junior boys, the high school 
group found time hanging heavily on their hands. 
They wandered idly into the reading room, seated 
themselves before the double windows looking out 
upon the main street of the town, and watched in- 
differently the few pedestrians who passed by. 

“Some day!” Squint declared restlessly. “I wish 
there was something to do.” 

They discussed leisurely the prospects of the track 
team in the coming contest with Millville, the chances 
of a victory in the county meet. 

“A good deal depends on what Stretch Magens 
does,” Mel Chalmers announced. “If he goes to the 
206 


AT THE HILLSDALE A. C. 


Junior Reception and is kept out of the Millville 
meet, we’ll probably lose.” 

“I don’t think he’ll go to the reception,” Ward put 
in. 

But Squint Anderson shook his head. 

“Probably will, whether he wants to or not,” he 
maintained, “just to show that he won’t let Mr. 
Merritt boss him.” 

“If he does,” Bill announced quietly, “and the 
coach keeps his word, Millville will wallop us.” 

They relapsed into momentary silence, wondering 
what would be the outcome of the clash between coach 
and student. 

“He won’t dare do it,” Ward said finally; but his 
words were dubious, unconvincing. 

Squint Anderson, glancing out of the window, 
smiled grimly. 

“Better ask him about it,” he suggested. “He’s 
coming down the street now.” 

Stretch joined them a few minutes later, together 
with Chuck Connors and Art Denman. The star 
jumper had evidently been having a difficult after- 
noon, for he slouched moodily in one of the chairs 
and regarded his schoolmates with somber eyes. 

“Good day for ducks!” Chuck Connors announced. 

207 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


The other boys did not answer. Ward would have 
been better satisfied if Stretch and his cronies had not 
come in; but after all, he reflected, they were all 
students in the same school and they ought naturally 
to stick together. 

“How about a game of pool?” Stretch suggested. 

“Tables are all full,” Squint advised him shortly. 

“What about the Junior Reception?” Bill Barrett 
asked suddenly. “You’re not going, are you, 
Stretch?” 

The other boy nodded grimly. 

“I sure am,” he added. 

“We’ll lose the Millville meet if you do,” 

“That isn’t my fault. And anyhow, Blondie won’t 
dare leave me behind.” 

No one answered ; and after a time, Stretch stirred 
restlessly. 

“There’s nothing to do in this dump,” he said. 
“How about going over to the athletic club?” 

Evidently, he included them all in the invitation, 
and Ward glanced over at Bill Barrett questioningly. 
He had never been in the quarters occupied by the 
Hillsdale A. C. 

Bill nodded. 


208 


AT THE HILLSDALE A. C. 


“All right,” he answered. “Might as well go there 
as anywhere else.” 

They donned raincoats and caps and made their 
way slowly out of the Y. M. C. A. Three blocks 
further on, Stretch stopped at a three-storied build- 
ing, on the ground floor of which was a hardware 
store, entered a dimly lighted hall, and stumbled up 
a carpeted stairs leading to the top floor, where the 
athletic club had its quarters. Stamping into the main 
room, they found Alf Kearney sitting quietly by the 
window. Alf looked up eagerly as they entered, and 
greeted them cordially. 

“Just wondering what to do with myself,” he an- 
nounced. “Take off your coats and make yourselves 
at home.” He looked over at Bill and Ward curi- 
ously. “This is an honor,” he added. 

“How about a little pool?” Stretch suggested. 

“There’s the table,” Alf answered easily. “Every- 
thing we have is yours for the asking.” 

Stretch walked over to the rack on one wall, 
selected a cue, and turned to the others. 

“How about a game of Kelly?” he asked. 

Chuck Connors and Art Denman nodded eagerly, 
but Ward and his friends hesitated. There was a 
regulation table on the top floor in the billiard room 
209 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


of Ward’s home, and Ward was generally recognized 
as one of the best players in the high school. But he 
was not sure that his father would want him to play in 
a place like the athletic club. 

“We can make it a cent a point,” Chuck Connors 
said, “and a cent in the pot for every scratch. Come 
on! 

Ward knew then that he was not going to play. 

“Leave me out of it,” he announced. “I’ll just 
look on.” 

Alf Kearney glanced over at him amusedly. 

“Not quite classy enough for you, eh?” he sneered. 

Ward felt his face growing red. 

“Don’t believe in gambling,” he answered bluntly. 

Alf chuckled. 

“Little boy thinks that papa won’t like it,” he said. 
“How about you other fellows?” 

“I’m game,” Art Denman answered. 

“Count me out,” Squint announced. 

“Me too,” Bill Barrett said quietly. 

Kearney’s eyes gleamed angrily. 

“What’s this, a Sunday school picnic or a pool 
game?” he asked. 

“Neither,” Squint flung back at him. 

Alf walked over to the rack and selected a cue. 

210 


AT THE HILLSDALE A. C. 


“Come on,” he suggested sarcastically, “the rest 
of us can play, and mamma’s boys can watch us.” 

Squint grinned into his leering eyes. 

“Fiddlesticks!” he said. 

Ward took his place beside the window and watched 
indifferently as the game progressed. Alf Kearney 
was easily the best player, and, although he did not 
win much, his success was sufficient to put him in a 
good humor. 

“Nothing like a game of pool for a rainy day,” he 
said pleasantly. “Won’t you other fellows join us?” 

Ward shook his head. 

“We’ll just watch,” he answered. 

After an hour of looking on, however, he tired of 
it. 

“Ought to be getting along,” he suggested to Bill. 

The other boy nodded. 

“How about it, Squint?” he asked. “Shall we 
beat it?” 

“I’m willing.” 

They stood up. 

“Guess we’ll be getting along,” Squint announced. 
“See you fellows later, maybe.” 

Stretch nodded indifferently, but Alf Kearney held 
up his hand. 


211 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


“Stick around a little while,” he urged, “and we’ll 
serve refreshments. Can’t let you fellows leave like 
this, you know.” 

He adjusted his cue in the rack, and turned grin- 
ningly to Stretch Magens. 

“I’ve got a little something in the next room that 
will make your eyes open,” he said. “You wait 
here a minute.” 

He hurried into an adjoining room, returned a 
moment later carrying a dark bottle with a long 
neck. 

“Real stuff,” he announced. “And we’ll use it 
to toast success to the Hillsdale track team — and my 
friend Blondie.” 

Ward’s eyes opened wide in sheer amazement. 
The mysterious bottle evidently contained liquor of 
some sort, and Alf Kearney expected them to drink 
it. It was against the law, of course, and. . . . 

“Just between friends, you know,” Alf said 
pleasantly. “A little private stock of mine. One 
moment, gentlemen!” 

He went back to the adjoining room again, re- 
appeared with half dozen dirty glasses. 

“How about it?” he asked. “Who’s with me?” 

For an instant, no one spoke, then: 

212 


AT THE HILLSDALE A. C. 


“We all are,” Chuck Connors answered. 

“ That's the way to talk.” Alf held the bottle to- 
ward the light, regarded it almost affectionately. 
“A little of this won’t hurt any one,” he explained. 

“Not for me,” Ward said. 

Alf laid the bottle down upon the pool table. 

“What’s the big idea?” he asked evenly. 

“I don’t drink.” 

“Bosh!” 

“Neither do I,” Squint put in. “And you can 
count Bill out, too.” Bill Barrett nodded. 

Alf turned from them disgustedly. 

“Come on, Stretch,” he said angrily, “we’ll have 
our little party anyhow.” 

For a moment, Stretch Magens hesitated. Ward 
regarded him with anxious apprehension. Stretch, he 
knew, was in training; and unless he kept himself in 
the very best of condition, he could not hope to win 
the jumps in the county meet. It occurred to Ward, 
suddenly, that perhaps Alf Kearney realized the same 
thing and was taking this method of weakening the 
Hillsdale track team. 

“Come on!” Alf urged. “We’re all good friends 
together. To the Hillsdale track team!” 

Very slowly, Stretch Magens shook his head. 

213 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


“Can’t do it, Alf,” he announced unhappily. “I’m 
in training.” 

Kearney’s face darkened. 

“What’s the idea?” he asked. “These Sunday 
school boys getting to you, too?” 

“Just can’t do it, Alf.” 

For an instant the older man’s eyes flashed angrily; 
then, with a motion of infinite disgust, he picked up 
the bottle and carried it back to the adjoining room. 

“Come on, fellows!” Ward said. 

Together with Bill Barrett and Squint, he left the 
quarters of the athletic club. 

“Do you know,” he declared, when they were out 
in the street again, “we’ll have to hand it to Stretch 
for that.” 

“Why?” Squint wanted to know. 

“Because Stretch realized that he couldn’t help 
us win the county meet if he got out of condition, 
so he refused to drink. He did it for the school. 
Squint.” 

But the other boy snorted. 

“He did it for himself,” he answered bluntly. 
“Stretch doesn’t want to take any chances on losing 
the high jump and have Coach Merritt get back at 
him. The school doesn’t mean anything at all.” 

214 


AT THE HILLSDALE A. C. 


But Ward wasn’t entirely sure. It took courage, 
he knew, for Stretch to refuse Alf Kearney. 

Perhaps, he reflected, Stretch wasn’t so bad after 
all. 


CHAPTER XIX 


A REFUSAL 

O N Friday night Ward remained away from 
the Junior Reception. He was more dis- 
appointed than he cared to admit; but he 
told himself grimly that the coach had given an order 
and it was up to him to obey it. He wouldn’t have 
minded as much if he had even a small chance to do 
something in the meet with Millville the next day; but 
his pole vaulting was as poor as ever after that one 
record leap, and he knew that only a miracle would 
give him a first or second place. 

He stayed home, though, trying his best not to 
wonder what his classmates were doing; and when he 
woke up the next morning, he was glad that he had 
done it. 

The team was scheduled to gather at the high school 
at one o’clock for the trip to Millville, which was 
to be made in automobiles; and shortly before the 
hour Ward went back to the garage of his home 
216 


A REFUSAL 


and brought out his father’s big sedan. Coach Mer- 
ritt was to go in the car with him, together with Bill 
Barrett, Mel Chalmers, and some of the substitutes. 

At the school. Ward found most of the team wait- 
ing; and his eyes opened in frank surprise when he 
discovered Stretch Magens among them. Coach Mer- 
ritt, arriving a few minutes’ later, nodded pleasantly 
to the squad. 

“The three cars are here, I think,” he said quietly. 
“Supposing we go.” 

The boys picked up their suit cases and piled into 
the waiting machines, Stretch among them. But 
Coach Merritt did not give the word to start. In- 
stead, he stepped down from Ward’s car and walked 
over to Art Denman’s runabout, where Stretch was 
sitting. 

“Magens,” he asked evenly, “did you attend the 
Junior Reception last night?” 

“Yes.” The star jumper spoke defiantly, as if he 
didn’t care whether or not the whole world knew what 
he had done. 

“Then,” the coach answered quietly, “you can’t 
make the trip to Millville.” 

For a moment, Stretch Magens did not say a word, 
217 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


simply sat motionless in his seat, his eyes wide with 
mingled amazement and surprise. 

“You don’t mean that you’re going on without me, 
do you?” he asked. 

The coach nodded. 

“Yes,” he said, “that’s what we’re going to do. 
Stretch.” 

“But — but, even though I don’t jump, I can go 
with you, can’t I?” 

“Not with the team. You’ve been dropped from 
the squad until Monday.” 

Art Denman, sitting beside Magens, ventured an 
objection. 

“But I’m manager of the team, Mr. Merritt,” he 
protested, “and if I want Stretch to go with me as 
my guest, he can do it, can’t he?” 

“No!” The coach reached forth his hand. “Get 
out, Stretch,” he said. 

Stretch Magens did not move, and after a moment of 
tense waiting, the coach spoke again. 

“Get out!” he said for the second time. 

He did not even raise his voice, but there was, 
nevertheless, something in the way in which he looked 
at Stretch which swept aside the boy’s defiance, caused 
him to slink down in his place as if he had been 
218 


A REFUSAL 


caught redhanded in a shameful act, and was sorry 
for it. Without a word, he climbed out of the car 
and deposited his suitcase on the sidewalk. 

Coach Merritt turned quietly to the other members 
of the team. 

“We’d better be getting along now,” he suggested. 

As the cars moved away from the curb, Ward cast 
a single glance backward. Stretch Magens stood 
watching them, his hands at his sides, his face ex- 
pressive of amazed wonder and chagrin. It seemed 
to Ward as if he could not yet understand how it 
was that Coach Merritt had dared to leave him , the 
star of the team, back in Hillsdale. 

Ward wondered about it himself during the trip 
to Millville; and, as the meet progressed and Hills- 
dale faced almost certain defeat, he could not help 
wondering what the school would say about it; 
whether they would take sides with Magens, who had 
done the wrong thing, or with Coach Merritt, who 
had kept his word, even though it meant that the 
team would be beaten. 

And the team tms beaten, losing ten points in the 
two jumping events, and with it the meet by a score of 
50 to 46. It was a new thing for Hillsdale to be 
defeated in track, and in the dressing room after the 
219 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


contest, Ward heard two or three of the fellows mum- 
bling over it. No one said anything outright, how- 
ever, about the coach’s action in leaving Stretch at 
home, and the trip back to Hillsdale was made 
quietly. But Ward could not help wondering what 
the school would say. 

As short a time ago as the basketball season, he 
knew that the students would have been contented 
with nothing less than victory. But somehow, since 
Coach Merritt had made that single speech in the 
auditorium, they had begun to look at things differ- 
ently. An honest defeat, Mr. Merritt had told them, 
was more to be desired than a questionable victory. 
He had said something else, about playing the game 
fairly and squarely, with each man doing his full 
share toward the team’s success; and somehow, with- 
out being exactly conscious of it, the school had 
learned to look at things through his eyes, from the 
standpoint of a college man. 

And so, when Ward Jackson reported for classes 
on Monday, he found that sentiment had already 
crystallized against Stretch Magens. Even the in- 
dignant protests of Art Denman and the attempts of 
Jim Stackhouse to make light of the whole affair did 
not influence them. The general attitude seemed to 
. 220 


A REFUSAL 


be that as Magens had disobeyed orders, had broken 
training, he alone was to blame for the defeat. 

It was a splendid tribute to the personality of Coach 
Merritt and to the ideals for which he stood. But 
Ward did not think of it quite in that way; all that 
mattered to him was that the coach had done the 
square thing, and the school had backed him up. 

In the dressing room that afternoon, however, 
Stretch Magens gave notice that he had no intention 
of accepting his humiliation without protest. He 
stamped down the stairs importantly, accompanied 
by Art Denman and Chuck Connors. The latter had 
no connection with the track team; and at sight of 
him Ward scented trouble. 

“Hello, you men!” Magens snapped, as the 
members of the squad looked up at him question- 
ingly. “Got beat, I see.” 

Bill Barrett nodded. 

“Yes,” he answered, “but you know why, don’t 
you?” 

Stretch Magens smiled sneeringly. 

“Of course I know why,” he answered. “It’s be- 
cause you fellows haven’t got the nerve to stick up for 
your rights.” 


221 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 

Ward did not understand quite what Stretch was 
driving at. 

“How do you get that way?” he asked. 

There was something about his manner of speak- 
ing which caused a wave of crimson to sweep over 
the star jumper’s face. He wheeled angrily, his 
eyes flashing. 

“I’m simply saying that, if you fellows had refused 
to go to Millville unless the coach took me along, 
we would have won the meet and kept our record 
clear.” 

“You didn’t deserve to go,” Bill Barrett declared. 

“Bosh! You know as well as I do that I could 
have won the two jumps even if I had stayed up all 
night. Couldn’t I? 

“Probably,” Bill answered quietly. “But Mr. 
Merritt warned you to stay home from the Recep- 
tion, and you thought he was bluffing. You called 
his bluff and found out that he meant what he said. 
And now you’re sore.” 

“Who wouldn’t be sore?” Chuck Connors put in. 
“It was a dirty deal, all around.” 

No one said anything for a moment, while Stretch 
Magens regarded the squad with flashing eyes. 

“Everything was all right with the team until 
222 


A REFUSAL 


‘Blondie’ came around with his high-brow ideas,” 
he said finally. “But, if you ask my opinion of 
him, I think he’s nothing but a big bluff.” 

“What makes you think that?” Bill Barrett asked 
quietly, but his face was pale and his hands were 
clenched. 

“Because he is.” Stretch turned to the members 
of the team. “He makes believe he knows a lot 
about track,” he continued, “but did any of you 
fellows ever see him do anything but tell us? Did 
he ever show you how to pole vault, for instance, 
Jackson?” he asked. 

Ward shook his head. 

“No,” he answered hesitatingly, “but. . . .” 

“That’s how it is with everybody,” Stretch broke 
in. “He tells me I jump wrong, but he’s never even 
jumped over the bar at four feet himself. I’ll bet 
my hat he wasn’t even on a college team.” 

“He says he was,” Bill answered. “And if you 
ask me. . . .” 

“No one’s asking you anything,” Stretch continued 
angrily. “But I give notice right here and now 
that ‘Blondie’ can go way back and sit down as far 
as I’m concerned. He’s nothing but a big bluff, a 
Morris chair athlete.” 


223 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


“And it would be a good thing for the team if Alf 
Kearney could come around and help us before the 
county meet,” Art Denman put in. 

“I saw Alf Kearney downtown last night,” Chuck 
Connors volunteered, “Alf wanted to know why 
‘Blondie’ didn’t pick on some one his size. Said to 
tell him he was ready to be picked on any time.” 

Stretch Magens snorted. 

“You needn’t worry about ‘Blondie’ picking on 
Alf,” he said. He stood up and threw a heavy garnet 
sweater over his shoulders. “Come on up to prac- 
tise,” he suggested digustedly. 

Without comment, the team shuffled out of the 
basement. They were surprised, and just a bit awed, 
at the vehemence of Stretch Magens’ attack on Coach 
Merritt. They had not expected anything like that, 
even from Stretch. 

“The trouble with him,” Bill Barrett declared to 
Ward, when the two boys had dropped behind the 
others, “is that he knows he’s in the wrong and is 
trying to get out of it by attacking Coach Merritt. 
That’s the kind of thing Stretch would do.” 

Ward nodded, but he was, nevertheless, not at all 
pleased at the turn events had taken. He was more 
224 


A REFUSAL 


determined than ever to stand by the coach, to prove 
to Stretch Magens and his few followers that the old 
order of things had changed at Hillsdale, and that 
even the star of a team was not so big as the team 
itself. But Stretch had been so bitter in his attack, 
so confident in his statement that Mr. Merritt was 
“bluffing,” that the members of the squad, even 
though they were willing to stand behind the coach, 
could not help but be influenced by what Stretch had 
said. For there was no denying the fact that Mr. 
Merritt’s coaching of the track team was wholly by 
word of mouth, and that the new mentor had never 
taken personal part in the practice. 

“I wish that he’d show us something for once,” 
Ward muttered. 

But the coach continued his practice of directing 
things “from the sidelines,” as Art Denman expressed 
it; and, even though the majority of the candidates 
obeyed his orders explicitly, Ward noticed that oc- 
casionally one or another of them glanced at him 
dubiously, almost questioningly, as if they were 
turning over in their minds some of the things that 
Stretch had said. 

Practice, however, went along smoothly enough 
until it was almost time to go home. And then, 
225 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


smiling pleasantly, but with narrowed eyes, Alf Kear- 
ney came upon the field. 

At the moment of his arrival, Coach Merritt was 
talking to Bill Barrett near the starting line; and 
Kearney, sauntering across the track, nodded to him 
indifferently. 

“Professor,” he said, lingering almost insultingly 
over the word, “some of the fellows have told me 
that you was a great athlete a few years ago.” 

The other man glanced up speculatively. 

“No,” he answered quietly, “I was never that.” 

“You did things in college, though, didn’t you?” 
Alf persisted. “Played football, and ran on the var- 
sity track team?” 

“Yes, I was a varsity man. Why?” There was 
no antagonism in the coach’s voice, and no hint of 
fear; only a sort of mild curiosity. 

“Ever do any boxing?” Alf asked. 

“A little.” 

The uninvited visitor smiled with satisfaction. 

“That’s what I wanted to know,” he announced 
loudly, so that the gathering circle of boys could 
hear. Then he turned directly to Coach Merritt. 
“We’re going to have a little affair down at the Hills- 
dale Club, Saturday night,” he explained, “and, as 
226 


A REFUSAL 


you and me are about the same size and we’ve both 
handled our mitts a bit, I’m wondering if you won’t 
put the gloves on with me for a few rounds.” 

It was a deliberate challenge, and the watching 
boys knew it for such. Ward Jackson, listening 
eagerly, glimpsed the smugly satisfied face of Art 
Denman, and noticed that Stretch Magens was smiling 
broadly. There was something about their attitude 
which told Ward more plainly than words that they 
had recently been in touch with Alf Kearney, had 
probably planned out the whole thing beforehand. 
It was a trap in which to catch Coach Merritt, to dis- 
credit him in the eyes of the team, and the school. 

Just for an instant, the coach hesitated, while he 
looked searchingly into the challenging eyes of Alf 
Kearney. Then he shook his head, slowly, almost 
reluctantly. 

“I’m sorry, Kearney,” he said, “but I’m not in a 
position to accept your invitation.” 


CHAPTER XX 


ATHLETE AND GENTLEMAN 

A T noon the next day, Ward Jackson found 
himself walking home with Squint Ander- 
son. Since track season began, he had 
not seen so much of Squint; and he was glad now 
for a chance to talk things over with the other boy. 

“How about it, Squint?” he asked. “You heard 
what some of the fellows are saying at school, didn’t 
you?” 

Squint nodded. 

“Yes,” he answered, with his usual directness. 
“They’re saying that Coach Merritt is a coward be- 
cause he wouldn’t put on the gloves with Alf Kearney. 
But that’s all nonsense.” 

“I know it is,” Ward agreed, “but some of them be- 
lieve it, just the same.” 

“Not so very many; only a few of the old gang 
who’ve stuck with Stretch all along.” 

“But even that is wrong,” Ward contended. “And 
it’s going to hurt the track team, too.” 

228 


ATHLETE AND GENTLEMAN 


“How?” 

“Oh, the fellows are beginning to wonder whether 
Stretch maybe isn’t right, after all. And even though 
they want to be loyal to Coach Merritt, they can’t help 
wondering.” 

But Squint did not seem to be much impressed. 

“Coach Merritt has already done more for Hills- 
dale than any other five persons combined,” he stated, 
“and practically the whole school’s behind him. As 
soon as some of them have time to think it over, 
they’ll know that he was absolutely in the right when 
he refused to put on the gloves with Alf Kearney. 
He isn’t a rowdy.” 

“Maybe they’ll see it sometime,” Ward agreed, 
“but the county meet’s only five days away, and we’ll 
need every thing that we’ve got if we’re going to win.” 

“You’re worrying too much about it,” Squint de- 
clared bluntly. “Forget it, and things will come out 
all right.” 

Ward, however, shook his head doubtfully. 

“Alf’s challenge,” he said, “will make everybody 
remember how Alf cleaned up for Young Jeffries at 
the Firemen’s Carnival. The Coach has heard about 
it, of course, and you can’t blame people for thinking 
that maybe. . . .” 


229 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


“Do you think Mr. Merritt was afraid to fight 
Alf?” Squint asked directly. 

For an instant Ward hesitated; then his lips shut 
grimly. 

“No,” he answered staunchly. “He wasn’t afraid, 
Squint.” 

He wished, though, that Alf hadn’t issued his 
challenge. If he had only waited until after the 
county meet, it would not have mattered so much. 
After Hillsdale had won and the new teacher had 
justified his methods of coaching, even Alf Kearney 
would have been forced to keep still about it. But 
now, Ward knew that even such loyal members of 
the track team as Bill Barrett and Mel Chalmers 
were bothered about the incident. There was no 
doubt of the fact that Coach Merritt had lost caste. 

After supper that evening, he spoke to his father 
about it. His dad was a Princeton graduate, and so 
was Frank Merritt. 

“Dad,” he said hesitatingly, “you know that Mr. 
Merritt comes from Princeton, don’t you?” 

The older man nodded. 

“Yes,” he answered, “although, of course, he is 
long after my time.” 

“He was a varsity man there, wasn’t he?” 

230 


ATHLETE AND GENTLEMAN 


“Yes, football and track.” 

Ward glanced up doubtfully. His dad, he knew, 
was deeply interested in the progress of events at the 
high school, had yet to miss a basketball game or 
a track meet. But he had always been rather silent 
on the subject of the new coach. Vaguely, Ward 
wondered why. 

“Yesterday afternoon,” the boy continued, “Alf 
Kearney, who coached the team last year, challenged 
Mr. Merritt to a boxing match at the athletic club, and 
— and the coach refused.” 

The older man laid down the magazine he had 
been reading. 

“Were there a lot of boys around?” he asked. 

“Yes, sir. And some of them say that Mr. Merritt 
was afraid.” 

“Why?” 

“Because he wouldn’t accept the challenge. Just 
said he wasn’t in a position to.” 

“Humph!” For a moment, Ward’s father was 
silent. “Frank Merritt,” he declared finally, “isn’t 
afraid of Kearney, or any one else.” 

The boy’s eyes widened. 

“Then, too,” he continued, “Stretch and some of his 
bunch are saying that Mr. Merritt’s a bluff, that he 
231 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


never shows us how to do things, just tells us.” 

“And do you do what he tells you?” 

“All of us except Stretch.” 

The older man was quiet for a long time. It 
seemed to Ward as if he was debating something, 
wondering whether to speak further or not. Finally 
he reached over and picked up the magazine he had 
been reading. It was the Princeton Alumni Weekly. 

He turned its pages slowly, indicated an item back 
among the class news, and handed it to Ward. 

“Read that,” he suggested. 

The item referred to consisted of two paragraphs, 
under a heading “Class of 1920.” 

“We have just heard indirectly about Frank 
Merritt,” Ward read. “Frank, it seems, is now 
teacher of English and track coach at the Hillsdale 
High School. It’s the first job he has been able to 
take since he returned from the war. Sometime or 
other, Frank’s going into engineering again, but he 
wants to rest up for a year or so before taking up 
more strenuous work. We all know about his service 
record, so there is no need of going into that here. 
But we’re willing to wager that Hillsdale has a better 
track team than ever before, and a stronger school 
spirit. 


232 


ATHLETE AND GENTLEMAN 


“All of which brings to mind an incident of 
Merritt’s sophomore year at college. Most of us 
remember it. Frank had tried for a place as high 
jumper on the freshman track team and had proved 
to be a dub of the worst sort. When he went out for 
the varsity the next season, everybody grinned indul- 
gently and admired his spirit, but we were pretty sure 
that he wouldn’t be able to do anything. He didn’t, 
until the dual meet with Yale; and then, with the 
victory at stake, he sprung the big surprise of the 
year, cleared the bar at over six feet, and won the 
meet for us. That’s the kind of fellow Frank was at 
college, and that’s why we predict great things for 
him as a coach. It’s a habit of his to come through 
in a pinch.” 

Ward laid down the magazine and regarded his 
father with wondering eyes. 

“Why didn’t you tell me he was like that in 
college?” he demanded. 

The older man smiled. 

“I had a talk with Merritt the first week he was here 
at Hillsdale,” he said slowly, “and he told me that he 
didn’t want to live on his past reputation, that it 
would be a better thing for him to start as just a new 
coach whom no one had heard about. He knew then 
233 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


that it was going to be rather hard sledding here, and 
he wanted to solve the problem in his own way.” 

But Ward could not entirely understand. 

“If the fellows knew that he was so good at college, 
they’d work their heads off for him — even Stretch 
Magens,” he said. 

“Probably they would. But he prefers the other 
way.” 

“He was good, wasn’t he?” the boy asked. 

“Intercollegiate champion in the high jump.” 

“Gee!” Ward’s eyes shone happily. “Wait till I 
tell the bunch,” he added. 

“Think you’d better tell them?” 

Ward had not even considered anything else, but 
there was something in his father’s voice which 
caused him to look up sharply. 

“Why not?” he asked. 

“Probably, if Mr. Merritt wanted them to know, he 
would have told them himself.” 

“I— I didn’t think of that.” 

His father picked up the magazine again, and Ward 
relapsed into silence. What he wanted to do was 
to call up Bill Barrett at once, to tell his chum that 
Coach Merritt was an intercollegiate champion in the 
234 


ATHLETE AND GENTLEMAN 


high jump, and that Stretch Magens was all wrong. 
He could picture the consternation of Stretch and his 
followers, the sensation that the announcement would 
make among the members of the team. There would 
he nothing that Stretch could say, nothing that 
he could do except admit his fault. And the 
school would be behind Mr. Merritt all the stronger. 

The incident of Alf Kearney’s challenge would be 
forgotten. Even Stretch would not be able to make 
anything out of it. For it would be foolish so much 
as to hint that a man who had played on the 
Princeton football team would be afraid of Kearney. 
Probably, if he wanted to, the new coach could make 
Alf look like a novice. Ward smiled grimly. 

But he did not call up Bill Barrett. His father 
had said that if Coach Merritt had wanted the fellows 
to know about his college days he would have told 
them himself. There was nothing to be ashamed of 
in being a two-letter man at Princeton; it was a feat 
that most people would have openly boasted about. 
But Frank Merritt, clear-eyed and quiet of voice, had 
decided to say nothing about it, had preferred to 
meet the situation in another way. 

Moreover, he had been in the war, had probably 
fought in France. His war service was a thing that 
235 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


all of his classmates knew about; it must have been 
something special, worthy of note. 

“Dad,” Ward asked suddenly, “did the coach see 
real fighting, on the firing line?” 

The older man nodded. 

“Yes,” he answered. “He was with the A. E. F.” 

Ward wanted to ask more about it, but something 
held him back. He felt, somehow, as if he was tres- 
passing on sacred ground, almost like an eavesdrop- 
per. 

But no one knew how much he wanted to tell his 
schoolmates what he had heard. It seemed to him 
the easiest way of clearing up a difficult situation, of 
making Frank Merritt the big hero of the school. 
But he knew, too, even as he considered the prospect, 
that he would not say anything to any one about it. 
For the new coach had planned out his own course of 
action — and it was up to Ward to respect his wishes. 

“Dad,” he said suddenly, “I’ve decided to keep 
still about the coach.” 

He was glad, though, of what he had heard. For 
no matter what the outcome of the county meet, he 
himself would always know Frank Merritt in his true 
colors — as a modest athlete and a true gentleman. 

The new coach was there . 

236 


CHAPTER XXI 


THE VISITOR 

T HE week advanced without further incid- 
ent; a week which saw a gradual tighten- 
ing of the tension under which the team 
worked. For they had decided to make up for the 
Millville defeat by a victory in the county champion- 
ships; and each man was eager to do his share, to 
play his part in the final triumph of the season. 

Stretch Magens worked with the others; a grim- 
faced Stretch, with a determined light in his eyes, 
and with his lips set stubbornly. Watching him, 
Ward decided that he had been hard hit by his fail- 
ure to jump against Millville, but Ward was quite 
sure that it was his pride which was injured more 
than anything else. He spoke to Coach Merritt only 
when absolutely necessary. 

Ward wished with all the loyalty of his own 
staunch young heart that Stretch would come out of 
his shell, would stand side by side with the other 
237 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


members of the squad in working for the good of the 
school. For Stretch would probably be captain of 
the team the next year; and a captain ought to think 
of other things besides himself. 

Still, Ward had troubles enough of his own to keep 
him from thinking much about Stretch Magens, His 
pole vaulting was not going very well. Once or 
twice he cleared over nine feet, but generally, in 
spite of all that the coach had taught him, he made 
a miserable muddle of his practice. As the day of 
the meet approached, he began to lose all hope of 
winning even a single point. 

He did not give up, however, and on Thursday re- 
ported at the field with the rest of the candidates. It 
was the last practice of the year, as Coach Merritt had 
ordered them to remain after school on Friday to 
talk things over, instead of doing any active work. 

Mr. Merritt himself was detained on Thursday 
afternoon by a teachers’ meeting, and when Ward 
reached the Oval the coach had not yet arrived. 
Most of the men sat on the long bench near the start- 
ing line waiting for him to make his appearance. 
In view of the approaching contest, they were all 
rather solemn, and even Stretch Magens did not have 
much to say. 


238 


THE VISITOR 


But shortly after four o’clock, Art Denman joined 
them. His eyes were shining excitedly. 

“I just saw Alf Kearney downtown,” he announced 
eagerly, “and he’s got a fellow with him who was 
with the U. S. Engineers over in France. It was 
the same outfit that Alf was with before he was trans- 
ferred, and Alf didn’t get across. But this other 
fellow saw some real fighting, and he took part in 
the A. E. F. track meet during the war. He’s a 
great jumper, got third place in the championship 
meet, and I asked him to come up and give us some 
pointers.” 

“Is he coming?” Stretch Magens demanded. 

“You just bet he is. He and Alf will be here 
in about ten minutes.” 

Stretch nodded happily, but the other members 
of the team looked dubious. 

“Even if we did need his help,” Bill Barrett sug- 
gested, “it’s too late now for him to do much.” 

“At least,” Stretch answered, “he can tell me 
whether I know the right way to jump or not.” 

“Mr. Merritt’s already told you that,” Ward put 
in. He was not at all pleased at the turn events 
had taken. 


239 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


“Oh, him?" Stretch snorted openly. “This man’s 
a soldier, and a real athlete.” 

“Mr. Merritt was in service,” Ward reminded 
him. 

“Probably had a desk job in Washington.” 
Stretch glanced toward the gate. “Here they come 
now,” he announced. 

Alf Kearney’s soldier friend was a big man, with, 
a jaw that protruded aggressively, and a pugna- 
cious nose. He acknowledged Alf’s introductions 
pleasantly enough, however, and turned curiously 
to Stretch Magens. 

“Alf tells me you’re something of a jumper,” he 
said. 

Stretch nodded. 

“About five feet, nine,” he answered. 

“Let’s see you try a few.” 

Stretch stood up to take off his sweater; and while 
the squad waited curiously Alf Kearney turned to 
Jim Stackhouse. 

“Where’s Professor ‘Blondie’?” he asked. 

“At teachers’ meeting,” Jim answered. “He’ll 
be around soon, though.” 

Alf grinned. 

“Hank,” he announced, turning to the other man, 
240 


THE VISITOR 


“you want to be mighty careful what you do. 
They’ve got a coach here who don’t like to have 
people butting in.” 

But the stranger only grinned. 

“If he gets funny with me, I’ll plant him one,” 
he answered shortly. 

Frowning, Ward followed the others to the jump- 
ing pit, and waited curiously while Stretch Magens 
leaped lightly over the bar, which was set at an even 
five feet. As soon as Stretch landed, however, Alf 
Kearney’s friend shook his head. 

“If that’s the way your coach taught you to jump, 
he don’t know much,” he announced bluntly. 

Stretch’s eyes opened wide. 

“What’s the trouble?” he asked. 

“Your form’s all wrong. You hit the take-off too 
close, and you don’t get the right spring. What 
you need is some coaching.” 

“I — I — ” Stretch did not know quite what to 
say. “I’ve always jumped this way,” he finished 
lamely. 

“Time you changed then.” The stranger turned 
questioningly to Jim Stackhouse. “What’s the name 
of your coach?” he asked. 

“Merritt. He. ...” 


241 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


“Here he comes now,” Bill Barrett put in. “He 
told Stretch all along that he was jumping wrong.” 

Alf Kearney glanced toward the far end of the 
field. 

“If he tries to get funny with you, Hank, smash 
him,” he whispered. 

Ward waited breathlessly. He was glad that the 
visitor had at least borne out Mr. Merritt’s conten- 
tion that Stretch Magens’ form was wrong; but he 
was just a bit apprehensive of what the newcomer 
would do should the Hillsdale coach object to his 
presence. Possibly, he would refuse to leave the 
field; and if he did. . . . 

For an instant Coach Merritt, coming upon the 
group around the jumping pit, regarded them cur- 
iously; then his eyes rested upon the man standing 
next to Alf Kearney. His jaw dropped. 

“This is a friend of Alf’s,” Jim Stackhouse began 
hesitatingly. But the coach, ignoring him, took a 
single step forward, and held out his hand. 

“Hank Dorgan!” he said. “What in the world 
are you doing here?” 

The stranger glanced up questioningly, and then 
his eyes opened wide. 


242 


THE VISITOR 


“Captain Merritt!” he exclaimed joyfully. “Cap- 
tain Merritt, of all people!” 

While the gaping crowd of boys looked on 
wonderingly, the two men shook hands. 

“The la9t time I saw you,” Hank Dorgan declared, 
“they were carrying you back to the first aid station. 
How did you make out?” 

Coach Merritt smiled. 

“Pretty well banged up, Hank,” he answered 
quietly. “Haven’t gotten over it yet.” 

“The fellows told me later you got a D. S. C. Is 
that right?” 

“Yes, but it was only luck, of course. If. . . .” 

But the other man, interrupting him, turned 
scornfully to Alf Kearney. 

“And is this the fellow you was telling me was 
yellow, Alf?” he snapped. “Is this the man?” 

Kearney nodded doubtfully. 

“Yes,” he answered. “I. . . .” 

“You poor boob! Haven’t you heard about his 
war service?” 

“No; don’t know anything about him.” 

Dorgan turned to Coach Merritt, whose face was 
suddenly crimson. 


243 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


“What’s the big idea?” he demanded. “Didn’t 
you tell these boys?” 

The coach shook his head. 

“No,” he answered. “The war is over now, you 
know.” 

“What difference does that make?” The stranger 
wheeled, and faced the squad. “Frank Merritt 
here,” he announced, “was captain of my company 
over in France. He was the squarest man that ever 
lived, and the whitest captain that any company ever 
knew. And he was the bravest, too. Don’t you 
boys know anything about him?” 

“Not about his war service,” Ward answered. 

“Well, I’ll tell you then. One night, just before 
the war ended, when our top sergeant was half shot 
to pieces between the lines, Captain Merritt went out 
after him and brought him back. He was hurt so 
much himself that we didn’t know for weeks whether 
he was going to die or not; but later we heard that 
he was all right, only he couldn’t ever do any athletic 
work again because he was all mixed up inside. 
That was bad, too, because he was the best quarter- 
miler in the American Army.” 

Ward glanced triumphantly at Stretch Magens, 
but Stretch’s eyes were glued on the speaker. 

244 


THE VISITOR 


“And later,” Dorgan continued, “the captain was 
given the Croix de Guerre by the French Govern- 
ment and the Distinguished Service Cross by the 
United States. Didn’t you fellows know about 
that?” 

They shook their heads silently, and Hank Dorgan 
turned wondering eyes to the coach. 

“Why didn’t you tell them?” he demanded. 

Coach Merritt smiled apologetically. 

“That thing was all past and gone, Hank,” he 
answered quietly. “And I wanted these boys to re- 
spect me for what I am, not for what I’ve done.” 

Into the honest brown eyes of Hank Dorgan, there 
crept a look of utter bewilderment. 

“Well, I’ll eat my hat!” he said. 

For a moment no one spoke; and then, unexpect- 
edly, Alf Kearney held out his hand. 

“I had you all wrong,” he said huskily. “Will 
you shake on it?” 

Then, while the members of the Hillsdale track 
team looked on dazedly, the hands of the two men 
clasped in a firm grip of understanding. 


CHAPTER XXII 


THE COUNTY MEET 

I T was Friday afternoon, and the members of 
the track team were waiting for something. 
Although the hands of the clock pointed to 
after four, Coach Merritt had not yet arrived. 

“Where is he?” Jim Stackhouse asked finally. 
“It’s after four now.” 

He did not mention the coach’s name, but they 
all knew whom he meant. Somehow, after what 
they had heard on the athletic field the preceeding 
day, they were reluctant to say anything about Coach 
Merritt. Stretch Magens especially was unusually 
silent, for Stretch had openly called the older man 
a coward. But they knew now that there wasn’t a 
line of cowardice in his whole slender body; he was 
a soldier who had won the right to wear a D. S. C. 

“The reason that he couldn’t get into things more, 
couldn’t really show us how to jump and run,” Bill 
Barrett remarked finally, as if he were continuing 
246 


THE COUNTY MEET 


a conversation already started, “was because ihe 
might have reopened some of his old wounds if he 
had done anything strenuous.” 

The others nodded. 

“Yes,” Stretch Magens answered, “and that was 
why he let Alf Kearney talk back to him.” Stretch 
was silent for a moment. “And I said that he was 
yellow,” he added wonderingly. 

Suddenly, Ward held up his hand. 

“Some one’s coming,” he said. 

It was Coach Merritt; and as he entered the room, 
the members of the track team rose to their feet. 
Not one of them could have explained why he did 
it, but they all stood up, nevertheless, as they might 
have done had the President of the United States 
come suddenly upon them. 

But Mr. Merritt only nodded casually, took a seat 
on the end of the benches, and pulled a pencil and 
paper from his pocket. 

“Let’s see if we can figure out the meet, fellows,” 
he suggested. “We want to win it if we can, you 
know.” 

Ward nodded grimly. 

“You just bet we do,” he answered. 

“There will be five teams here to-morrow,” the 
247 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


coach continued, “but we do not know anything 
about two of them. Winston and Millville, of 
course, we have met ourselves, but Tanwood and 
Valley Brook are unknown quantities. Any of you 
fellows hear anything about them?” 

“I understand that Valley Brook’s got a good 
sprinter,” Mel Chalmers announced. “He does the 
hundred in ten and one-fifth.” 

“Tanwood didn’t do anything last year except place 
second in the hurdles,” Bill Barrett volunteered. 
“And Foulds beat their men then by over six yards.” 

Two or three of the other fellows knew something 
about the contending teams; but, even though they did 
not give themselves the benefit of a single doubt, they 
were fairly confident, after they had figured it out on 
paper, that Hillsdale would win. 

“Even though we make provision for any surprise 
that might spring up,” Coach Merrit declared, “we 
ought to lead Millville by five or six points. I don’t 
think the other three teams will matter much, except 
to slip in a point now and then.” 

“Millville beat us last week, of course,” Stretch 
Magens put in. “But this time I’m not going to act 
like a baby. I — ” Stretch swallowed hard, and 
turned so that he faced the coach. “Mr. Merritt,” 
248 


THE COUNTY MEET 

he said, “I’ve been pretty much of a boob, and I’m 
sorry.” 

Two spots of crimson glowed in each of Magens’ 
cheeks, and his voice was husky. But he looked 
squarely at Coach Merritt as he spoke, and his eyes 
did not falter. 

The others looked on curiously, wonderingly. It 
was the first time since they had known Stretch that 
he had admitted himself in the wrong, and for a mo- 
ment they could not understand it. 

Coach Merritt, however, only smiled. 

“Let’s forget it, Stretch,” he said easily; but there 
was something in his voice which told the boy beside 
him that anything that had happened before that day 
was already forgotten, and that hereafter the two 
of them were going to be the best of friends. 

Ward could not help thinking about it after the 
conference had ended and the team had left the high 
school building. Everything was coming out all 
right, after all, he told himself happily; they would 
win the county championship for the second time, 
and the school would be satisfied. 

It was strange what a change had come over the 
school since the track season began, Ward reflected. 
Before then, they had, of course, wanted to see the 
249 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


teams win, had even gone to the different contests 
and cheered lustily for victory. But now, things 
were different. Even the members of the track team 
themselves thought in terms of the school; it wasn’t 
the team itself that mattered, but rather the larger 
thing which the team represented. It was school 
spirit of the highest type, a spirit which could be 
counted upon to cheer just as undauntedly in defeat 
as in victory. 

But Ward did not look for defeat in the county 
meet; for, aside from the two middle distance races, 
they had good men in every event. Jim Stackhouse, 
for instance, should win at least six points in the 
sprints; and there were other runners to gain places 
in the mile and two mile, and in the hurdles. In 
the field events, there was Mel Chalmers in the shot 
put, and Stretch Magens, with his two sure first 
places in the jumps. 

It did not seem possible that Stretch would be de- 
feated; and yet, in spite of his confidence, Ward was 
conscious of vague misgivings stirring dimly within 
him. For he could not quite forget what Coach Mer- 
ritt had predicted would happen if Stretch should 
meet a man slightly better than himself, a man, for 
instance, who could clear the bar at five feet ten 
250 


THE COUNTY MEET 


inches. For Stretch had refused to take his coach- 
ing, and there was just a chance, a bare chance, that 
he would pay the penalty. 

When Ward awoke on Saturday morning, however, 
all doubt had left him. Of course they were going 
to win, he told himself ; anything but victory was not 
even to be thought of. He walked over to the win- 
dow of his room, and was amazed to find the sky 
overcast, with a promise of rain in the air. 

The possibility of a storm later in the day damp- 
ened his ardor somewhat, but he knew that nothing 
short of a hurricane would postpone the meet and 
that Hillsdale would not be under any greater handi- 
cap than the other schools because of the adverse 
weather. As far as he himself was concerned, it 
did not matter, for there was little likelihood of 
his winning a place. In the calculations the day be- 
fore, even Coach Merritt had not conceded him a 
point. 

All through the morning, however, he cast dubious 
eyes at the glowering sky. He knew, for one thing, 
that the attendance would be much smaller than us- 
ual, and he wondered if any but the most ardent 
students of the school would carry out their plan to 
attend in a body, as they had promised. The possi- 
251 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


bility of rain had not occurred to them when they 
had made their pledge, however, and Ward was not 
so sure that they would all come. 

He was glad when luncheon was finally over and it 
was time to report at the dressing room. It had 
been a long morning; and, in spite of the fact that he 
had attended the usual Memorial Day exercises in 
front of the Town Hall, the hours had dragged along 
interminably. 

He found most of the members of the team there 
before him when he reached the high school build- 
ing. They dressed quietly, with troubled glances out 
of the window; and, when occasionally they did 
speak, it was to complain about the weather or to 
comment crisply upon last minute news they had 
heard about the contending teams. 

When finally Coach Merritt came in, however, the 
tension was broken. The Coach wore a rain-coat 
which had once had an army insignia sewn on its 
shoulder, and somehow the sight of it steadied Ward 
Jackson’s jumping nerves. After all, he decided, 
they could only do their best; and if their best was 
not good enough, there would be nothing shameful 
in defeat. 

The coach himself voiced something of the same 
252 


THE COUNTY MEET 


thought when he addressed them just before they 
left for the field. 

“Men,” he said, “we’ve got a good chance to win 
to-day if every one of you will keep hold of him- 
self and give the best that he has at the proper time. 
We must remember that the school expects us to 
come out ahead, and that we must give all that we 
have to justify their faith in us. Now let’s go!” 

It was drizzling slightly when they found them- 
selves outside again, and Ward was conscious of 
a brief moment of disappointment. Undoubtedly, 
the Hillsdale cheering section would be almost va- 
cant; the girls at least would not venture out on such 
a day. 

But as he trotted through the gate at the far end 
of the field, he was surprised to hear the “long yell” 
of the school greet them thunderously; and, looking 
up, he saw to his amazement that the portion of the 
stand reserved for Hillsdale rooters was more than 
comfortably filled, that even the girls had lived up 
to their promise to come to the meet and cheer the 
team to victory. Never before in the history of 
the school had such a thing happened; and, at the 
sight of his fellow students, bundled up in sweaters 
and raincoats and heavy blankets. Ward Jackson 
253 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


felt a queer lump rising in his throat, and his mouth 
was suddenly dry. It was school spirit supreme, a 
spirit such as only an instinctive leader like their 
new coach could engender. It was Hillsdale’s trib- 
ute to their soldier hero who had also proved himself 
a man. 

It seemed to Ward as if surely, in the face of 
such support, the team could not help but win the 
victory. No matter how hard the opposition, no 
matter how frequent the setbacks, Hillsdale would 
come through. They had to win, they could not do 
anything else. 

For the first time since he had been a candidate 
for the track team, Ward found himself brooding 
bitterly over his own inability in the pole vault. If 
only he were good enough for a single place, there 
would be no doubt of the victory. And now, 
if something unexpected should happen, and Hills- 
dale needed the points which a good pole vaulter 
could give them. . . . Ward shook his head grimly. 
If he eould only come through, if he only could! 

He forgot himself, however, when the referee blew 
his whistle for the start of the hundred yard dash. 
Fortunately, there were only five men in the event, 
and no trial would be necessary; and so Ward took 
254 


THE COUNTY MEET 


his place near the finish line and waited eagerly 
for the crack of the gun. It came shortly, and the 
runners bounded up the track, closely bunched. It 
was over, seemingly, as soon as it had begun; but 
the Valley Brook sprinter had borne out the rumor 
of his speed and brushed across the line to an un- 
questioned victory. Jim Stackhouse was second, 
however, and Hillsdale had broken into the scor- 
ing column with a precious three points, one more 
than Millville, her closest rival. 

But the joy of the stands was short lived, for in 
the half mile run, which was the next event, the 
Millville runner finished first and Hillsdale did 
not even place. That made the score 7 to 3; but 
Coach Merritt had not counted upon the half mile, 
and no one worried much. The meet was young 
yet. 

At one end of the field, the shot putters were 
already engaged in competition, and, after the first 
call for the two mile had been given, Ward walked 
over to where Mel Chalmers was balancing him- 
self in the chalked circle. Just as he arrived at 
the spot, Mel made his final heave; but after the 
field judge had measured it, the Hillsdale entry 
shook his head and frowned disappointedly. 

255 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


“How did you make out?” Ward asked eagerly. 

“Second place,” Mel answered briefly. “Arm- 
strong, of Millville, beat me.” 

That gave the rival school five more points, which 
was something of a shock, for Hillsdale had figured 
that Chalmers had a good chance to win the event. 
With the score 12 to 6 against them, the two boys 
walked silently back to the starting line. Bill Bar- 
rett was warming up in front of the stands, and, at 
the sight of Ward, he smiled confidently. 

“Bill’s going to win this,” Ward announced. 

His prediction proved to be correct, for the Hills- 
dale runner took the lead at the start and kept it 
throughout the race. Millville, however, managed to 
finish second and add another three points to her 
total; but in the low hurdles Hillsdale gained an ad- 
ditional point when Foulds was barely beaten at the 
tape by a Tanwood runner. And a moment later, 
when the result of the broad jump was announced, 
it was found that Stretch Magens had outclassed the 
field and had won easily. 

Ward, a printed score card in his hand, turned 
eagerly to Captain Jim Stackhouse. 

“That gives us nineteen points, and Millville 
twenty,” he annnounced. “Winston and Tanwood 
256 


THE COUNTY MEET 


each has eight, and Valley Brook five. It’s between 
us and Millville, I guess.” 

Jim Stackhouse nodded. 

“Yes,” he answered, “we’ve got to beat Millville 
to win.” 

Things looked well for Hillsdale, however. There 
were six events remaining, and the home team ex- 
pected to gain places in at least five of them. 

“Stretch Magens is sure to win the high jump,” 
Jim declared, “Conrad’s good for something in the 
mile, Foulds will get second at least in the high 
hurdles, and I ought to squeeze in a couple of points 
in the two-twenty. It’s going to be easy.” 

So it seemed to Ward; and even though Millville 
won the quarter mile and brought her total up to 
twenty-five he did not worry much. And then, 
when Ned Conrad made a runaway race of it in 
the mile, Ward danced happily up and down the 
track and counted the meet already won. For they 
had not expected so much of Conrad and would have 
been satisfied with a third. Millville’s two points 
in that event brought her total up to twenty-seven, 
but Hillsdale already had twenty-four, and her 
strongest events were still to come. 

But in the high hurdles something happened. 

257 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


Tom Foulds got off to a good start and was actually 
leading the field at the second jump. And then, as 
he rose for the third hurdle, his spiked shoe caught 
on the top of the obstacle, threw him off his balance, 
and sent him crashing to the ground. Before he 
could climb to his feet again, the other runners had 
passed him, and, although he limped bravely across 
the finish line, his chance had gone. There was one 
consolation, however; a Winston runner won the 
race, and Millville finished fourth. 

Ward, glancing at his scorecard, made a rapid cal- 
culation. The score was still 27 to 24, but Hills- 
dale was sure of five points in the broad jump, and 
at least a second or third in the two-twenty. That 
meant that the final total would be thirty-five points ; 
and Coach Merritt had figured that thirty-four would 
win the meet. So the burden of victory rested upon 
Jim Stackhouse and Stretch Magens. 

First call for the pole vault boomed across the 
field just as the two-twenty yard dash was about to 
start, and Ward waited near the track to see the 
finish of the final track event. At the crack of the 
gun, the five runners dashed desperately for the 
first turn; but, even as Ward wheeled eagerly in their 
direction, Jim Stackhouse, over-anxious, attempted 
258 


THE COUNTY MEET 

to cut across in front of the man beside him. There 
was a sharp cry of warning, an instant of confusion, 
and then, the garnet- jersey ed figure of the Hills- 
dale captain shot like a catapult out of the straining 
group, and plunged full length upon the wet ground 
beside the track. 

Ward Jackson, after a moment of wild confusion, 
realized clearly what had happened. Stackhouse 
had* been spiked, and through his eagerness to gain 
the lead, had lost the race. 

And that meant that, with only the high jump and 
pole vault remaining, Hillsdale still needed eight 
points for victory. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


THE DUB COMES THROUGH 

I T seemed to Ward Jackson, as he stood at the 
finish line and watched a Millville runner finish 
in third place and count an additional two points 
for the rival school, as if the thing could not be true, 
as if there must be a mistake somewhere, and Jim 
Stackhouse would at least be given a chance to try 
again. But the official who had been standing at 
the spot when the accident had happened announced 
to the referee that Stackhouse alone was to blame 
and that no claim of foul would be allowed. 

At the announcement, Ward’s heart sank like a 
lump of lead in his breast. The score was now 29 
to 24 in favor of Millville, and Hillsdale’s only 
chance lay in the ability of Stretch Magens to win 
the high jump. But even if Stretch won a first 
place, as he was expected to do, that would mean 
that Hillsdale’s total would reach only 29 points, 
and that a single third place for Millville in the high 
jump or in the pole vault would win the meet. 

260 


THE DUB COMES THROUGH 


Ward, joining a group of his team mates on the 
long wooden bench reserved for them, glanced into 
their troubled faces and saw the light of discourage- 
ment glowing in their eyes. 

“Even with Stretch’s first place in the high jump, 
we’ve only got a chance to tie the score,” Bill Bar- 
rett declared. “But Stretch is our only hope.” 

The others nodded, not one of them taking into 
account the fact that they also had an entry in the 
pole vault. But Ward could hardly blame them. 
He had yet to win a single point in any contest; 
and, even under Coach Merritt’s expert training, he 
had failed to show any noticeable improvement. 
But the sight of their listless attitudes, their brood- 
ing eyes, caused him suddenly to grit his teeth de- 
terminedly and to clench his fists almost angrily. 
If he only could come through, if he only could! 

It had begun to rain again; and after a brief con- 
sultation, the officials decided to use the jumping pit 
for both the high jump and pole vault. It was less 
muddy there and the runway was not so slippery. 
In the cold drizzle that was falling, the seven entries 
in the high jump reported to the field judge, and 
the members of all the teams gathered around the 
uprights on the side opposite the stands and watched 
261 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


eagerly while the various candidates took their prac- 
tice leaps. It seemed to Ward as if Stretch Magens 
was just a little less confident than usual; and Ward 
noticed that the boy from Valley Brook, who was at 
least six feet tall and whose legs appeared to have 
springs in them, showed better form than even the 
Hillsdale star. Ward knew, after the event had 
started, that Stretch was meeting a man worthy of his 
best efforts; and after the bar had been raised to five 
feet, two inches, and three of the less skillful jumpers 
had been eliminated, he was seized suddenly with the 
feeling that Stretch was going to be beaten. But he 
did not say anything to the other Hillsdale men, and 
when, a few minutes later, the Millville jumper 
missed in the third trial, Ward cheered as lustily 
as any of them and added his word of encouragement 
to the star of his own team. At least, he told him- 
self, Millville could not add to her score in that 
event; and if Stretch could only win, the count would 
be a tie. The three remaining entries were having 
difficulty in getting over the crossbar, for the ground 
was slippery, and on each successful trial their 
spikes became clogged with clinging mud. At five 
feet six, the Tanwood man dropped out, and the con- 
262 


THE DUB COMES THROUGH 

test resolved itself into a battle between Stretch 
Magens and the tall boy from Valley Brook. 

In spite of the adverse conditions, they both cleared 
the bar at five feet seven; and when it was raised 
another inch, Stretch sailed over on his first attempt. 
His opponent, however, jumping easily and with 
every confidence, followed his example. When the 
bar was raised another precious inch, Stretch fell in 
his first attempt; but recovered himself, and was 
successful on his second trial. And then, while the 
stands waited breathlessly, the bar was raised another 
notch. 

Ward Jackson glanced over to where Coach Merritt 
was standing, and tried to read the older man’s im- 
passive face. But, if the Hillsdale coach was at all 
doubtful of the final result, he gave no indication of 
it. Ward could not help thinking, however, what 
Mr. Merritt had said would happen if Stretch Magens 
should ever be called upon to jump higher than five 
feet nine inches. It looked very much as if Stretch 
would be called upon to do it now, for the Valley 
Brook entry was still in the running and apparently 
had not yet reached his limit. It took Stretch three 
trials before he finally cleared the bar; and as the 
stick was raised still another inch, it seemed to Ward 
263 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


as if Stretch’s eyes clouded and his lips twitched 
nervously. But, whatever he may have been thinking, 
Stretch Magens tried his best to fulfill the promise he 
had made to go through the season without defeat. 

His best, however, was not good enough, and after 
his opponent had leaped easily over the crossbar at 
five feet, ten inches, Stretch attempted to duplicate the 
feat — and failed. 

For a moment, after Magens had fallen down in his 
final attempt, the Hillsdale cheering section was 
stunned into silence; and then, as the realization of 
the defeat of their champion came to them, they 
looked at one another with wondering eyes. But 
finally, when their cheer leader leaped to his place 
before the stands and called hoarsely for “a long 
yell for Hillsdale,” they boomed forth the old cheer 
with all the strength of their lusty young voices. 
Ward knew then that the spirit of the school had 
proved itself, had risen above even the tragedy of de- 
feat. Even if he could not win the championship, 
Coach Merritt had at least done that much for Hills- 
dale. 

When the high jump ended, a large number of 
spectators filed toward the entrance gate at the far 
end of the field. The meet was practically as good 
264 


THE DUB COMES THROUGH 


as won, for Millville was leading by a score of 29 to 
27, and only the pole vault remained. And in the 
pole vault Hillsdale had but one entry; and he was 
Ward Jackson, who had never yet won even a single 
point. 

Mechanically, Ward reported to the field judge, 
and took his trial vaults. His team mates regarded 
him almost indifferently, as if his taking part in the 
event was only a matter of form; and Ward knew that 
they had no faith in him, no confidence in his ability. 

“It’s all up,” he heard Mel Chalmers say. “Ward 
needs at least a second place to win for us, and he 
can’t beat eight feet to save his life.” 

Ward bowed his head miserably; all through the 
season he had given the best that he had for the 
school, but in spite of his efforts, in spite of his con- 
scientious practice, he had not improved enough to 
merit the faith even of his own team mates. But, as 
he stood there listlessly waiting for his first trial, he 
felt the touch of a hand on his shoulder and was con- 
scious that Coach Merritt stood beside him. 

“Ward,” the coach said evenly, “it’s never too late 
to come through, you know. Let’s see if you can do 
it — for Hillsdale.” 

Somehow, the words of the man who had already 
265 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


taught him so much brushed away the boy’s dis- 
couragement and filled him with a growing determin- 
ation to do even better than he knew how to do in 
the big test he was about to face. His listlessness 
dropped from him, his helplessness vanished miracu- 
lously; and when his name was called, he dashed for- 
ward eagerly and cleared the bar with almost no 
perceptible effort. He could not have explained the 
change which had come over him, but he knew, some- 
how, that he was going to vault higher than he had 
ever done before. As his spikes sank into the soft 
mud of the pit, and the cheers of the Hillsdale stands 
rang in his ears, something of what Mr. Merritt had 
said about a good man taking his coaching came back 
to him. He, at least, he told himself grimly, had 
taken all the coaching which had been given him, had 
tried with all the strength he possessed to follow the 
advice of a man who knew how to pole vault. Per- 
haps now that the test had come, his efforts would bear 
fruit. 

He was hardly aware of the things that were hap- 
pening; but he knew that he was clearing the bar on 
each successive attempt, and that two of the six men 
who had entered the event had already dropped out. 

The bar had gradually been raised, but Ward did 
266 


THE DUB COMES THROUGH 


not even bother to ask about the successive heights. 
All that he knew, or cared to know, was that it was 
necessary for him to vault over it whenever his name 
was called. 

After a time, a fourth man dropped out, and Ward 
noticed that besides himself there was one entry from 
Tanwood and one from Millville still remaining in 
the competition. The bar looked unusually high, 
higher surely than he had ever cleared before, but still 
he did not ask what the height was. After each at- 
tempt, he walked back to the starting point at the 
end of the slippery runway, and waited quietly until 
the official motioned to him again. 

He was aware that the Hillsdale cheering section 
was standing up, and that the Millville vaulter 
knocked down the bar after he himself had cleared it. 
Vaguely, he heard the sound of thunderous cheering 
sweeping across the field, and recognized his own 
name at the end of the long Hillsdale yell. He 
watched with almost indifferent eyes while the Mill- 
ville entry failed his next two attempts; and he knew 
then that he was sure at least of a second place, that 
three precious points would be added to the Hillsdale 
score. But he knew also, as clearly as if some one 
were standing next to him and telling him about it, 
267 


AT HILLSDALE HIGH 


that that would not be enough, that the third place 
which the Millville man had won would give the 
visiting team 31 points, and that Hillsdale needed 32 
to win. 

But still he did not falter, did not lose the skill 
which had suddenly come upon him in the heat of 
competition. After the Tanwood man had knocked 
over the bar, Ward gripped his pole tightly, sprinted 
forward with all the speed he possessed, dug his 
spiked shoes in the hole made for that purpose, and 
leaped upward and outward in his final desperate 
effort. For an instant he saw the slender stick resting 
beneath him, heard the wild yell of delight which rose 
from the stands, and then tumbled in a heap in the 
muddy pit. 

Shaking his head dazedly, he walked back to his 
position and waited quietly while his opponent made 
his second attempt to clear the bar. Again the Tan- 
wood man failed ; and once again, on his last trial, he 
sent the stick tumbling from its perch. It was not 
until then that Ward conceded himself the victory, not 
until then that he walked over to the official and asked 
the height. 

“It’s ten feet, two inches,” the field judge answered 
268 


THE DUB COMES THROUGH 


quietly. “And that means that you have broken the 
county record.” 

But it meant more than that to Ward Jackson; it 
meant that he had justified Coach Merritt’s faith in 
him ; had won the victory for his school. Even when 
his team mates insisted on carrying him bodily to the 
basement of the building, he failed to experience any 
sense of personal triumph; he was glad, not for him- 
self, but for Hillsdale. His five points had given 
them the victory by a score of 32 to 31, a victory 
which was all the more glorious because of its un- 
expectedness. 

In the basement of the building, they dressed 
quickly, anxious to take off their wet suits, but stop- 
ping every once in a while to pat Ward on the back, to 
tell him how he had saved the day. Only Stretch 
Magens did not seem to join in the general jubilation; 
for a long time he sat in one corner of the room watch- 
ing the others with wondering eyes. But finally, 
when Coach Merritt came in, Stretch stood up and 
confronted the older man. The room grew suddenly 
quiet, as if the members of the team realized that 
they were now viewing the final act in the drama 
of the track season. 

“Mr. Merritt,” Stretch said quietly, “you told me 
269 


THE DUB COMES THROUGH 


when you first came here that, unless I learned how to 
jump the right way, I would be beaten. But because 
I thought that I knew more about track than you did, 
I refused to take your suggestion. I promised you, 
though, that if I should be defeated I’d admit that I 
had nobody to blame but myself.” 

“That’s all right, Stretch,” the coach answered 
gently. “We might just as well. . . .” 

But Stretch Magens held up his hand. 

“No,” he said quickly. “I don’t deserve to have 
things made any easier for me. I was wrong, and I 
want you to acknowledge it here before the team.” 
For an instant he hesitated, and then he smiled 
bravely into the coach’s shining eyes. “It’s a good 
man who takes his coaching,” he added. 

Mr. Merritt, grinning, held out his hand. 

“Right, Stretch!” he answered. “We’ll have to 
take Ward Jackson’s word for that.” 

Ward, finding the eyes of the team upon him, 
muttered something unintelligible about how wet the 
weather was, and wondered why in the world his 
heart was beating so crazily. 

(i) 


THE END 
































































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